Treatment
by Chalupakabra
Summary: Tino is a young psychology major, well known for being kind and eager to help others with their issues, but less so for his habit of profiling "patients" on campus. His therapist's eye has fixed on Berwald, but will he be the one who ends up on the couch?
1. First Contact

**Title**: Treatment  
**Genre**: Romance/Humor (Hopefully!)**  
Pairing**(s): Sweden/Finland**  
Rating**: K+ (At the moment)  
**Warnings**: Human names used where I can, though Denmark and Norway present a bit of a problem.  
**Summary (Full)**: Tino is a young student majoring in psychology, well known for being kind and eager to help others sort out their issues, but less well known for his habit of profiling "patients" on campus. His therapist's eye has fixed on Berwald, but will he be the one who ends up on the couch? [SuFin; College AU]  
**A/N:** Here's hoping my first multi-chaptered Hetalia fanfiction will be as enjoyable for you to read as it is to write. SuFin is rapidly becoming one of my favorite pairings, so I wanted to see if I could try something new with them that would still be faithful to their sweet relationship. Hope you like it!  
**Disclaimer: **I don't own Hetalia... really. As if I could have thought up something so awesome. Psh.

* * *

Tino was the university's go-to guy when it came to problem solving.

Girlfriend break up with you? Tino was the chicken soup to a bachelor's soul. Failing six courses? Tino knew exactly what to say to put a down-and-out back in the game. Unable to find that special someone? Tino could hook you up with the best match-maker on campus.

That was pretty much to be expected of someone who'd once been described as an "amateur shrink with a heart of gold". Tino had been the college's bright light since he'd enrolled two years ago, and was as recognized for his sweet nature and as he was for his dedication to his major, Psychology. He was a Secret Santa to die for and an excellent study-buddy, stubbornly maintaining good marks even when others' flagged. He lived on his own and was mature in spite of his deceptive looks, which got him labelled as much younger than the twenty he actually was. He seemed to strive to improve the day of anyone he ran across, and was cute in a way that wasn't entirely masculine (which endeared him to both genders, but especially the campus's female population).

Nobody's perfect, though. Tino's second-hand psych book could attest to that.

"Tino! Oy, Tino! Ya headed home?"

Tino turned as his landlord (another student, awkwardly enough) ran up to him. His mind automatically supplied information in a way he had trained it to do shortly after he'd begun pursuing a psychology major.

_Alias "Denmark", real name unknown. Age 27. Diagnosis: Bipolar disorder._

No one seemed to know why the man was called "Denmark" after his country of origin, but it was probably because the first night he'd shown up on campus he'd been completely drunk and singing the Danish national anthem at the top of his lungs. Tino waved in a sort of awkward, polite/friendly way which involved a lot of restrained wrist movement and tense smiling. He still wasn't used to the man who collected his rent talking to him so casually, or more nights than not having athletic sex with his sort-of boyfriend only a wall away.

But that was a completely separate story.

"Yes," he said. "Why do you ask?"

"Just figured I'd warn you," the Dane replied, patting the cloth of Tino's white beret. "That friggin' Swede skipped the economics lecture today, so he's probably home too. Watch out! We wouldn't want him to eat you, or something!"

With a final slap to Tino's back, Denmark ran off. He brimming with energy as per usual, and probably looking for his previously mentioned sort-of boyfriend, Norway— yet another student whose real name had never seemed to become an issue. Tino blanched and pulled out a small notebook he always kept on his person. He flipped through a couple of pages before he found the entry he was looking for.

_Oxenstierna, Berwald. Age 22. Diagnosis: Antisocial personality disorder.  
_

And there it was again. Like his mind was a psychiatrist's file cabinet, the memories of those he knew and observed were neatly labelled by name, age, and disorder— as if he liked to keep them organized for review and further diagnosis. Tino's worst habit, though he would never admit it, was profiling. He loved to get into peoples' heads, and he especially loved it when he could try to work out their problems. He had already built up a fair "case history" (completely illegally, of course, as he had yet to earn even his associate's degree) and he was immensely proud of it. If he were to become a successful therapist, he rationalized, he would need all the practice he could get.

Plus, people were just really interesting, especially bad ones.

Take this Berwald, for instance. Tino had been observing him for a few days now, and found all the little details about him _fascinating. _He skipped classes, ate alone, and was generally standoffish. He _looked _downright menacing, and no one could tell you where he was at any given time. He had no friends, and always wore heavy, dark clothing even in good weather. He never reacted to anything said about him, no matter how hurtful, as if he just didn't _care_. When he did deign to speak to someone (which was rare), he grumbled and mumbled his way through sentences without any regard to who he was speaking _to_. Standing at around six feet, he could probably toss around even the meanest of the campus security guards without breaking a sweat.

Foregoing technical diagnosis, he was the very definition of a _delinquent_.

Which was exactly why Tino had begun tailing him, because "delinquents" usually had a reason for their behaviour, and the Finnish man wanted to know Berwald's. What caused him to menace anyone who walked too close? Did he have a bad home life? Chemical imbalance? A nasty breakup in the past? The more Tino knew about the background of behavioural issues, the better he would be able to treat them— to treat Berwald's, as he intended to do. Tino steeled his resolve and picked up the pace on the way back to the small apartment complex he lived in, his messenger bag swinging wildly with his hurried steps. He took the stairs up to his second-floor flat and made a point of pausing near the fourth doorway from the landing.

As if on cue, Berwald stepped out and adjusted his coat.

"Good evening," Tino said, his tone cheerful as he tried to pretend that he'd been passing by, not waiting at the door. Berwald looked down at him, expression not only unreadable, but downright terrifying. For a moment it seemed as if time had frozen — literally frozen, as if there were icicles hanging from seconds — and Tino was trapped in Berwald's gaze as surely as if he'd been grabbed by the shoulders and _held_ there. He almost gulped at the intensity of the stare-down he was getting, feeling a tingle creeping over his skin. He'd really had no idea how scary the Swede was up close (or how very, ridiculously,_ unfairly _tall he was) until that moment.

And then Berwald nodded in greeting, the tense atmosphere shattered, and he started down the stairs with his heavy coat flapping behind him like some sort of medieval prince's cloak.

Tino's held breath whooshed out of him all at once, and he gasped in another as he watched the Swede roll some kind of motorbike out of a ground level garage and get on. He looked ready to meet with some local gang, if only going by how he was dressed (all one color) and the (ridiculously loud) growling of his motorbike as he went. Of course that was _seriously_ jumping to conclusions, but in the spirit of psychological analysis Tino wasn't about to discard any theory until he had enough evidence to the contrary.

Tino walked the short distance to his door and let himself in, hurrying to toss his bag down in the living area and hang up his key. He rummaged around until he found his black notebook and opened it out as he wandered into his bedroom. Tino plucked a ballpoint out of a holder on his desk, grabbed the wobbly back of his swivel chair, and set about making a note of his first _actual_ _meeting_ with Berwald.

_Tuesday_

_First interaction with patient. Patient didn't contribute verbally when greeted, but didn't seem overtly aggressive. Consistent choice in wardrobe indicates either insecurity with his image or careful maintenance of a set one. Patient departed at a late hour, though his destination is also unclear. Possibilities include gang involvement, but until further information is gathered this theory is based solely on conjecture._

Tino set his pen aside and evaluated his notes, checking to make sure they were as subjective as possible. With a satisfied nod, he hopped up and wandered into the kitchen, hoping he'd set aside at least one of the boxes of salmiakki he'd had to hunt to find. He leaned on the counter and munched on some, still thinking about Berwald and what he might possibly be able to do to help him without getting too close.

The best thing about being a psychologist, he'd often mused, was that he didn't have to get _directly_ involved in his patients' troubles if he didn't want to. Sure, he tried to solve their problems where he could, but he was always an outside observer looking in. Tino didn't have to involve _his_ feelings at all, and that was just fine by him.

He crumpled the candy box when he was finished and tossed it in the trash, then returned to his room to get ready for bed. He'd approach Berwald again tomorrow and see if he couldn't get a real greeting out of the man, but for tonight he could rest easy knowing that he'd accomplished his first objective.

_Contact with patient — successful._

* * *

**A/N:** Kind of short, but more will come soon. My comments aside, reviews are love, and I'd really like to know what you think! Drop me a line if you feel like it!

Thanks for reading to the end.

- C


	2. Learning the Details

**A/N:** Well, here's chapter two! Please keep in mind that daily updates will not be the norm, though. I don't want to disappoint, but the reality of the matter is that I can't always sit down and write when I want to. Life sucks, but this is why I must become a published author — so I can sit around on my ass all day writing. :D

Anyway, THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU for the wonderful reviews. I try to make a point of responding to as many reviews as I can, as I always appreciate feedback, but for those of you I can't reply to, THANKS! Love you guys!

Without further ado, here's the chapter - a little longer, as promised.

**Disclaimer: **Do I still have to do this after the first chapter? Who knows? XD

* * *

The sun woke Tino before his alarm clock, so he got up a little early and turned it off before it could sound unexpectedly and scare him out of his skin. He took a quick shower and went through his morning rituals of dressing and brushing his teeth and hair. Refreshed and ready for his mid-morning lecture on the criminal mind, he left home with enough time to stop at his favorite coffee shop, the 24 Hour Espresso.

"Tino! Good morning!"

A blond man behind the espresso machine waved at him with gusto, almost knocking over his coworker who was growling something about the receipts being in a strange place. Tino returned the American's grin and thumbs up, hoping he noticed how far down his nose his glasses were sliding before they fell off altogether.

_Jones, Alfred. Age 23. Diagnosis: Severe Hero Complex._

Tino stepped up to the counter and pulled out his wallet, smiling as a tall hot chocolate was ready before he had the money out to pay for it. The baristas here probably knew his tastes better than he did, and trusted him to the point where the student manning the register didn't even check to see if Tino had given exact change— he always did. Alfred aside, Tino knew most of the people who worked at this shop; it was one of the most popular places of employment for starving college students in the area.

"On your way to a lecture this morning, Tino?" the student at the register asked, brushing his dirty blond hair out of his eyes with an agitated motion. Tino smiled as he recognized the cashier instantly.

_Kirkland, Arthur. Age 26. Diagnosis: Suffers chronic hallucinations, anger management issues._

"Yes," Tino replied, sipping his coffee and stepping to the side so the next customer could order. "I figured you were too. Are you having to skip it?"

"No," Arthur grumbled, giving the next customer their drink and change, "but I might be a little late. Not only do I have to put up with _hero boy_ here fiddling with all the switches on the espresso machines, the bloke who worked the graveyard shift last night left the receipts a mess. I've got to straighten them up before next shift takes over…"

"New guy?" the psych major guessed.

"No, Berwald has actually been working here longer than I have, but his system is… not very… well, actually, I'm not altogether certain he _has _a system."

Tino choked on his sip of hot chocolate. "Did you say _Berwald?_"

"Yeah," Arthur replied. "Someone has to work the night shift seeing as the big sign out front says '24 Hour Espresso', and Berwald always gets stuck with it. Why do you ask? He a friend of yours?"

"Um, no, actually," Tino sputtered, trying not to be too obvious about what his intentions were. "So wait, he works here?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "What did I _just _say?"

"Hey, give the kid a break!" Alfred cut in, upsetting Tino's beret to tousle his hair. "You can't expect him to focus on what you're saying when your eyebrows are that size!"

"_Excuse me?_ You— You— BRASH AMERICAN GIT—! I'LL KILL YOU!"

Tino finished his drink quickly and left before he had a table thrown at his head. He was much more interested in making a note of the new information he'd gotten on Berwald than watching the baristas get into a frap-fight behind the counter, but only because he had a lecture to get to and couldn't afford to waste time engaging in whipped cream warfare. He pulled out his notebook and began writing as he walked, a habit that was probably pretty dangerous but which never seemed to cause him trouble.

_Wednesday_

_Gained some interesting information on the patient. Patient apparently works a late shift at the 24 Hour Espresso. Involvement in illicit activities cannot be entirely ruled out at this juncture, however._

Tino nodded to himself and closed his notebook, tucking his ballpoint pen behind his ear. He found his way to the lecture hall he was expected to be in and grabbed a seat next to one of his classmates and comrade in completely illegal profiling.

_Héderváry, Elizabeta. Age 24. Diagnosis: Prone to dangerous obsession with people or things, often misses social cues and speaks without semblance of discretion.  
_

"Oh, Tino! Always so prompt!" Elizabeta greeted. "Did you finish your hypothetical analysis of the Arlovskaya case, with consideration of environmental and early childhood influences on the accused?"

"N-no…" the Finnish man sputtered, visibly paling. "Were we supposed to…?"

"Nope, but you're so cute when you're terrified for your life!" the Hungarian woman enthused, pulling Tino into a bone crushing hug. "Awww! I just want to take a picture and keep that expression forever!"

"Breathing—!" he gasped, waving his arms futilely as he was nearly cuddled to death. "Elizabeta! Please—!"

She released him with a regretful pout, but settled into her seat peaceably enough.

"So, did you finally get up close and personal with tall, dark and Swede-y?" Elizabeta asked, sorting her class notes out from her personal profiles. Tino nodded but sank into his seat a little. Sure, he'd established contact with Berwald, but Tino couldn't help but feel a little fear when even his name was mentioned.

"More like 'tall, dark and _abjectly terrifying'_," the blond mumbled. "I had no idea… he's pretty intense."

Elizabeta gave him a sympathetic look and patted the crown of his head through his white beret.

"I know where you're coming from. Roderich doesn't seem as threatening as Berwald, but he's still pretty hard to crack if you know what I mean."

"Yeah," Tino said. "How's _that _going, by the way?"

Elizabeta smiled and was about to start in on what was bound to be an interesting story about her first time speaking to Roderich, but was cut off as the professor brought the class to order. With a promise to continue her story later, she and Tino got out the materials they would need for taking notes before settling in for the lecture. The house lights dimmed around them, and the slideshow accompanying the presentation blinked into life on the projection screen.

"And now," the professor announced, "the criminal mind."

* * *

Berwald woke up late, as he usually did, and ambled out of bed as if he had no particular place to be. He picked his glasses up from the bedside table and put them on before checking his cell phone. He hadn't expected it to be noon already, but there were no signs of panic on his face as he dialed his voicemail. This was exactly why he scheduled his courses for late afternoon and early evening as opposed to first thing in the morning— he could work late shifts anytime he needed without having to choose between a class or catching up on sleep. He was more of a night owl anyway.

The first message was from Roderich, a stingy Austrian guy in his Economics class if he remembered correctly:

"_Berwald! It's Roderich. I've been asked to call you on behalf of Mr. Moldova about you constantly skipping lectures. It's all well and good for you to pick up notes afterwards, but you really need to actually show up for class more often! Geez! Anyway, best regards."_

Berwald deleted the message with an unreadable expression. Great. Scheduling evening courses had seemed to work out well for him before Mr. Moldova's lectures and the beginning of his shift at the 24 Hour Espresso came into conflict. He moved on to the next message.

"_It's Lovino, you Swiss bastard. The gang's meeting up again Friday night to get drunk and harass the tomato bastard. Be there or I'll kill you. Or something. Whatever. Bye."_

Berwald deleted that message too, mentally chuckling at the Italian's perpetual short temper and bad manners. When would he figure out that _Vash_ was the 'Swiss bastard', not him? Who knew. Making a mental note to check if he could go meet up with the rest of the gang, he moved on to his last message. He noted with a vague sense of hostility that it was from his landlord, Denmark.

"_Oy! Ber…nard! Whatever! You skipped Ec class again, huh? If you're not gonna finish the course, you might as well ask the school for a refund, dumbass. You could use the money too, seeing as I have to raise the rent again! Haha, I really didn't _want _to, but Norway and I—"_

Berwald practically crushed the delete key into the body of his phone. He _hated_ Denmark to a severe degree, but he had to deal with it because this was the only place he could find within reasonable biking distance to school and work. Speaking of which, his first class of the day started in thirty minutes. Tossing on whatever was clean out of the slowly dwindling pile of clothes in his laundry hamper, he finger combed his hair and pulled on his favorite navy blue jacket before striding out the door.

And then striding back in. He'd forgotten the bag with all of his school stuff in it.

As he closed the door again, he was reminded of his strange encounter with his next door neighbor the previous night. Berwald wasn't used to people making an effort to talk to him unless they had a class or a shift with him, and felt embarrassed that all he'd managed was a nod at the other man's greeting. He seemed fairly pleasant from what little he knew of him, but he had never really shown up on Berwald's radar until last night. As he recalled their brief meeting, all the thoughts circulating in his mind seemed to blend together for a moment and he wondered if …Tino…? (yeah, if he remembered correctly, his neighbor's name was Tino) was going to have a problem with the rising rent, or if Denmark was selectively targeting him with his little rate hike.

Berwald took the last flight of stairs quickly, straddling his beat-up but dependable motorbike the moment he'd unlocked the garage and checked to make sure Denmark hadn't let down the tires again. He kicked it into life and started off down the road, his coat once again making him look like some sort of prince (though probably of the mafia persuasion, if that even existed) riding to war.

Of course he was only riding to his first class of the day, but he _would've_ been riding to war if, at any point in history, it had been defined as 'Advanced Carpentry'.

Really, just because he looked like he could earn a good living as the dictator of a small country didn't mean he couldn't enjoy making cabinets.

* * *

**A/N: **Somehow, the idea of Berwald menacing people in woodshop makes me laugh. I figured it would be more in line with his character to have him attending vocational classes rather than serious academic ones, thus the carpentry. Plus, I like making Ikea jokes!

Reviews are much appreciated! Drop me a line if you feel like it!

Once again, thank you for reading to the end!

- C


	3. Stalking Season

**A/N:** Yay! Thanks for all the reviews! I'll respond to them as soon as I can, but I'm uploading this really late, and I don't want to make a million typos while trying to thank people. I think I caught all the typos in this, but oh well, I'll check later and go Grammar Nazi and kill them all when I'm more awake.

Cookies to the people who caught the random Moldova reference I made in the last chapter. Also, cookies to those who caught the much more subtle Belarus reference as well — and to those of you who are going to go, "WHAT? THERE WAS A REFERENCE I DIDN'T CATCH?" and go back to hunt it down. I love being a Hetalia geek. :D

On that note, on to the next chapter. Apologies if the beginning drags a bit — I hit a serious wall while writing it, and I may come back and rework it later (yeah right!). To make up for it, this chapter is a little longer and I added an omake. :D

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hetalia, any Ikea brands, or SZS. Seriously.

* * *

Not many people attended vocational programs at the university, as it was far better known for its excellent academics than its killer welding coursework, and even less people would have applied if they'd walked into the carpentry classroom at this particular moment in time.

Berwald was crouched next to his latest piece — an almost finished ladder-back birch chair — applying clear stain with even, expert strokes of a four inch staining brush.

He was also looking very menacing. Very, _very _menacing.

It was a side-effect of his intense concentration on his work, apparently, but saying that would have done nothing to stop any perspective vocational students from running away screaming. His eyes, fixed on the grain of the light wood he was staining with fluid motions of his hand, were icy with focus and glinted even more terrifyingly behind the lenses of his sharp-framed glasses. The aura around him was intimidating in and of itself. Berwald had taken his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves in an effort to protect his clothes, but still only narrowly avoided dripping clear varnish on his shirt as he switched legs of the chair, pretty much in the home stretch. It was only _because_ he was so close to finishing that he didn't make a comment about the person who was currently sitting on the coat — his coat — that he thought would be safe draped over a chair he'd finished yesterday.

"Ve! I didn't think Arthur was so bad at cooking! I can't believe he set the kitchens on fire!"

Feliciano Vargas sat on one of Berwald's well-constructed chairs and swung his feet idly, eating a bowl of pasta he'd probably whipped together before the Briton's catastrophic cooking skills rendered the entire catering class homeless. He was looking at Berwald with absolutely no sign of fear — actually, he looked more like he was bored and waiting for the Swede to do something interesting, not just crouch there and stare at a chair leg for the better part of half an hour.

"What'd y'expect?" Berwald mumbled, picking up the chair so he could stain the foot. "Warnin' label on his fore'ead?"

Feliciano actually seemed to think about it for a second.

"Ve! That's a good idea!" the Italian cheered, almost throwing his fork across the room in his sudden excitement. Berwald sighed internally and set the chair aside to dry, wiping his hands off on a cloth as he stood to his full height. Feliciano was unaffected and promptly stood too, parading around the imposing Swede and chattering about pasta without a care in the world, even as other students were repelled by the taller man's terrifying aura. Berwald had known the Italian for longer than he would ever care to admit, seeing as Feli was the twin brother of his gang's leader and the, ahem, intimate 'friend' of another of its members, Ludwig. They'd been around each other enough that Feliciano's initial terror had worn off and Berwald too had been subjected to his good humour at every given opportunity. Not that he minded — it was always refreshing to talk to someone who wouldn't beg for their lives the moment you asked a question.

"Ve… what are you going to name this one?" Feliciano asked, gesturing to the drying chair with a pasta-laden fork. Berwald adjusted his glasses thoughtfully and looked the piece up and down, as if trying to size it up.

"'Karl'. Or m'ybe 'Jakob'…"

"That's nice…" the Italian said with a contented sigh. "So what are you going to do now?"

"M'goin' t'take it apart," Berwald grumbled, flipping the chair over so he could undo some of the fastenings underneath with an allen wrench he always had handy. Feliciano looked surprised and plopped back down in his seat.

"Ve? You can do that already?"

"Us'd quick dry st'in," the Swede replied, packing the detached legs and seat against the chair's back before sliding all of the pieces into a slim box along with the necessary hardware and the allen wrench. He set it on top of two other such boxes before knocking the ingrained sawdust out of his jeans and turning to Feliciano, who was still trying to decipher what the other man had said and hadn't yet realized that he was once again sitting on the two things the Swede needed to pack before he could leave class.

"Who're those for?" Feli asked, standing as Berwald oh-so-subtly tugged on his now hopelessly rumpled jacket. The Swede pulled on his coat and set about deconstructing the chair piece by piece before replying.

"L'dwig, I th'nk," Berwald mumbled, trying to keep his commissions straight in his head. "Got t'make the table st'll."

Feliciano looked overjoyed.

"Maybe this means he's moving away from Gilbert? Ve, that's exciting!"

The Italian flounced off happily, the bizarre curl of hair on the side of his head bouncing in tandem with his steps. He was obviously hoping that Ludwig commissioning a dining room set when his brother already had one meant he was finally getting his own place — a place he might ask Feliciano to share with him. Berwald watched the man display an exhausting amount of energy — and vaguely wondered if his pasta had been spiked — before lifting the relatively light furniture boxes and starting out of the carpentry classroom. He paused in the doorway and inhaled deeply, savouring the cleansing scents of pine and birch as well as the sharp odours of sealant and greased metal tools. Whenever he was having a bad day, all it took was a step into this class for him to feel grounded again. He held the door as Feliciano danced back out, headed towards the charred hallway that housed the university's catering programs.

"If all goes well," the Italian called as he practically skipped back to his class, "I'll make you something delicious to eat!"

Berwald nodded and waved as Feli slipped back in with his class, his chef's whites hardly as singed as that of his peers, before striking off towards the building's exit. People gave him weird looks as he passed, their eyes lingering on his rumpled jacket, and muttered to their friends.

"Looks like a fight to me…"

"Or a bad hangover…"

Berwald's expression was, as usual, unreadable, but there were no signs of anger in his body language. When you weren't talkative, weren't friendly, and weren't exactly the most brightly dressed person in the room, people were bound to talk — it didn't help that even his _face_ made him look like he scared small children for a living. He'd gotten used to ignoring people who had nothing better to do than talk, and his thoughts were so far away from the courtyard he'd strode into that he didn't even notice the two psychology students watching him like Special Ops on a recon mission. The students who weren't muttering about the Swede promptly turned to eyeing the short blonde and the long-haired brunette who were ducked behind bushes watching him.

"Nice dodge roll," Elizabeta whispered. "Your form has improved."

Tino gave the Hungarian woman a thumbs-up and peeked out through the shrubbery, keeping an eye on his 'patient'.

"I was worried he'd see me, and it's become second-nature…" he murmured. "Of course, I think we're more suspicious hiding in this azalea bush than being out in the open…"

"You're probably right," Elizabeta hissed, waving a hand towards a hole in the bush. "Roll out!"

The two of them slid out of the bush and behind a pillar, where they took a moment to shake the leaves out of their hair and brush off their clothes. A couple of students nearby looked pretty freaked out and moved away quickly, whispering to each other and tossing looks back at Tino, who was straightening his beret.

"Are all psychology majors crazy?"

"I think it's a course requirement."

Elizabeta made a 'psh'ing sound and waved a hand as if to brush them off, patting Tino on the head at the same moment the smaller man wondered why people kept doing that.

"Dang. We lost him mid-manoeuver," she grumbled, indicating the distinct lack of Swede as she shook out her skirt. "Sorry, Tino."

"No problem. I've got a lead on him, and that certainly made up for the lack of excitement in our criminology lecture."

"Seriously!" the Hungarian woman fumed. "I had no idea anyone could make triple homicides so _boring!"_

Tino laughed before sobering up suddenly and pulling his comrade-in-arms more firmly behind the pillar.

"Hey, what the—?"

"Five o' clock!" the Finnish man hissed. Elizabeta looked over and almost choked as Roderich exited the science wing, looking as regal as ever.

"Thanks, Tino!" she murmured, adjusting her bag as she prepared to dash to the next covert location. "I've gotta stalk, but I'll catch you later."

"No problem! Be careful — don't get arrested again."

Elizabeta raced off after her 'patient', and Tino took a moment to think about his. Cracking open his notebook, he glanced over yesterday's profile entry. He'd learned where Berwald worked — as well as when — but he didn't know if he should make such a bold move as to randomly show up at the 24 Hour Espresso — at stupid o' clock at night — with his little profiling notebook and sympathetic "And how does that make you feel?"s. Tino wasn't as manic about stalking his subject as Elizabeta, and didn't want to make him nervous by dogging his every step. If he was to get into Berwald's mind — if he was to learn about his motives, influences, and ambitions — he was going to have to do so gently. He would go to the 24 Hour Espresso, but not tonight.

Tomorrow.

He would go tomorrow, and see what he could learn about Berwald.

And try his hot cocoa. Tino made a slight humming sound as he dreamt of delicious hot cocoa.

He was looking forward to this.

_Wednesday_

_Have decided to observe the patient at work tomorrow evening. His experience in the workplace may have an influence on his actions elsewhere, and his punctuality — or lack thereof — may also have bearing on his situation. Also, I shall order delicious cocoa. It remains to be seen if the patient is any good at making it._

_

* * *

_

**OMAKE**

* * *

Elizabeta tailed Roderich at a safe distance, ducking behind a power pole every time the man hazarded a glance around. She paused every now and then to jot a note down in her version of Tino's little profile book, making her analysis as detailed as possible while performing moves that were an obvious throwback to the ninjas of feudal Japan. Her long, brown hair swayed with her every move, and concealed her expressions as she carefully observed her Austrian 'patient's movements.

Behind the power pole at her back, Gilbert Bellschmidt lurked, watching Elizabeta as she carefully profiled Roderich. He'd had a serious crush on Elizabeta since their days in kindergarten, but his awesomeness would not allow him to do something as lame as proclaim his love for her, so he had resigned himself to following her around — even to university. He growled something about the 'pansy Austrian' she was following before he was abruptly forced to switch poles to keep up with her.

Behind Gilbert, more subtly concealed inside a small tree, was his brother Ludwig, who was seriously concerned about his brother's infatuation with Elizabeta. He'd watched the man battle with his massive ego for years when it came to the woman, and was a little worried about what would happen if he just snapped and jumped her. He shifted a little bit in hesitance before launching himself out of the tree and behind a sign, maintaining the distance between himself and his brother, as well as his cover.

Behind Ludwig was Feliciano, who was only making an attempt at hiding himself because Ludwig was doing it and it looked like fun. Also, he wondered if his friend had any pasta.

Behind Felicano was his brother, Lovino, who was pulling off MI6 level covert maneuvers while radiating an aura of bitchiness so broad that Roderich was getting cold chills all the way at the front. He had no idea why his stupid brother would be tailing the potato bastard when he could be eating delicious pasta or something, but he was determined to keep a steady eye on him to prevent any 'inappropriate behaviour'. He ran over a cat while moving to the next safe position, but barely noticed as he kept his eyes fixed on the back of Ludwig's head, fervently wishing he could bore holes in it with his gaze.

Antonio Carriedo, owner of a local bar and grill, tailed Lovino with obvious amusement. He'd only been a little older than the two brothers as he watched them grow up, but he always found the interactions between Lovino and Feliciano amusing. Also, he couldn't have his little Lovi running around unsupervised, could he? If Francis showed up, he'd probably be really scared, though for what reason Antonio could never quite grasp. Antonio strolled along at the end of line, looking just as carefree as Feliciano, but much less covert.

Kiku Honda, a Japanese student studying abroad, watched with bewilderment as the line of people slowly worked their way down the street, pausing every now and then to make sure their respective covers weren't blown. Alfred stood beside him, laughing whole-heartedly.

"I-It's… a stalker chain?" Kiku whispered, hardly believing his eyes. Alfred grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.

"It's like the Pied Piper of Hamelin I read about the other day! Awesome!"

Kiku turned to watch the last of the chain carefully round a corner while Alfred laughed behind him and shouted things like 'Hamelin! Hamelin!'. He sighed and began walking again after he made sure no one else was going to latch onto the chain, holding his messenger bag close to his body like a protective charm.

"It would be nice if all those crazy people could just be led right out of town…" he murmured, and set off towards his dorm.

* * *

**A/N: **AHAHAHAHA STALKER CHAIN. Totally yoinked from Sayounara, Zetsubou Sensei, if you didn't notice, but I just love the concept. Plus, it was a fun way to introduce some more characters. I'm not going to include the whole Hetalia cast, of course, but I will try! I'll try to work in more Asian nations and Russia next! -dies-

As always, thanks for reading to the end. Reviews are much appreciated!

- C


	4. Late Night

**A/N:** And here's chapter four, wherein Tino pulls a Mission Impossible and infiltrates... a coffee shop. Not much else to say!

**WARNING(S):** Stalki— err, 'observation', occurs.

* * *

Tino was being subtle. Extremely subtle.

It was Thursday night — the night he'd chosen to "drop-in" on Berwald — at the 24 Hour Espresso, and he was maintaining his cover by pretending he had a paper to write that involved a late night and more than a little caffeine. Despite his best attempts, he was having a hard time blending into the background of the little coffee shop — apparently not many people dropped in for a mocha at three o' clock in the morning, so the shop was entirely deserted save himself and the barista.

Berwald still hadn't noticed him. Tino put it down to Elizabeta's superb training.

The Finnish man had — though he would never admit it — been looking forward to this all day. His lectures and classes had flown by, and before he knew it he was perched on one of the bar stools in the 24 Hour Espresso, crouched over his laptop, trying to look like he had a twenty page paper due tomorrow and was only now on the introductory paragraph. Berwald had arrived on time — early, actually — for his shift, and had taken over the register without so much as a word. He had the uniform on, sans the tacky cap, and didn't seem to have a problem working within the system — which wasn't exactly what Tino had been expecting, to be honest.

Well, to be _completely _honest, Tino had kind of expected him to ride in _through_ the plate glass window on his motorbike, mow down an old lady, and take the register in his best bloodstained polo.

Hey, profiling wasn't an exact science.

Berwald loitered behind the counter, not doing anything obvious to entertain himself, like reading a magazine or novel, but just staring into space as if he was thinking about something very deeply. His blank stare was a little softer than his usual gaze, so Tino figured that this would be the perfect opportunity to approach him under the guise of ordering some hot cocoa. He stood and carefully adjusted his beret, checking to make sure he actually had his wallet with him — knowing him, if he got to the counter without his money, as nervous as he was, he would probably flail around desperately for a bit before spontaneously exploding.

Foregoing that, Tino got out his wallet and stepped up to the register.

"Hello!" he greeted, snapping Berwald out of his daze as he laid a bill on the counter. "Grande hot cocoa, please."

"Mm," Berwald replied, starting on the beverage before he took Tino's money. It didn't take very long, and before a few minutes had passed Tino was sipping some surprisingly good cocoa as the Swede rang him up.

"$2.40," Berwald mumbled, handing over the man's change and his copy of the receipt.

"Thank you," Tino said, cheerfully. He was about to walk away, disappointed that he hadn't gotten any words longer than a syllable out of the imposing man, when he realized that the Swede had paused with the store copy of the receipt in his hand, looking like he'd been frozen in place. Tino tilted his head a bit out of curiosity and leaned over the counter to get a look at whatever had brought Berwald to a sudden halt.

Sitting on the counter, next to the register, was a device that looked something like a bear trap with a cell phone taped to the top. There were some shady looking symbols written on it in Sharpie, and it emitted an ominous hum every time Berwald's hand moved towards it with the receipt.

"What is that _thing?"_

"R'ceipt sort'r," Berwald grumbled, waving the sheet of paper he held at the thing as if to fend it off. Tino blinked.

"Ah… excuse me?"

"R'ceipt sort'r," the other man clarified, clearing his throat to help prevent further vowel abuse. Tino raised an eyebrow and set his cup down, half-climbing onto the counter to get a better look at the thing.

"You're kidding. Who… it isn't store issue, is it?" the smaller man said, debating whether or not to poke it and see if it bit. After seeing the veil of apprehension that settled over Berwald's eyes whenever one of his fingers got near it, Tino decided against it.

"No," the Swede replied, "Arth'r m'de th't."

One of his hands darted forward and snatched a paper from next to the machine, which Berwald handed to Tino without a word. The Finnish man jumped a bit at the sudden movement on Berwald's part, but unfolded the paper and calmly began to read over it as if he hadn't totally pegged the guy for a gang member.

"'Arthur Kirkland's _Magus Ordo Praesidium_, guaranteed to organize your life (or your appendages, if you're a complete fucking divvy). Patent pending'… Oh jeez…" Tino read, eyes running over the rest of the small paper with apparent worry. "Arthur's been _dabbling _again…"

Berwald shoved the receipt towards the maw of the device. It flashed open for a second, revealing a delicate inner network of trays and sorting mechanisms — as well as more nefarious-looking symbols — before it snapped shut on the paper, savaging it and almost getting the Swede's fingers too. Tino squeaked and fell off the counter in shock; Berwald took a step back in surprise before raising his eyebrows.

"Oh," the taller man said, in lieu of a yell or something more reasonable. Tino peeked back over the countertop at him, shocked by his lack of response, and Berwald shrugged.

"Don't st'rtle," he mumbled, looking mournfully down at the shred of paper Arthur's magical storage solution _hadn't_ eaten. Tino took one look at his expression and cracked up.

"Okay, maybe we're going about this wrong…" he suggested, letting himself behind the counter to stand next to Berwald. "Maybe… since this obviously isn't a… _normal… _device, it needs the right… _attitude_."

The Swedish man looked down at him sceptically over the rims of his glasses, causing Tino to gulp nervously.

"Wh't d'y'mean?" he asked.

"I think you're scaring it, and it's reacting defensively," the psych major concluded. Berwald paused, and then nodded as if that were entirely possible. Tino let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding before leaning down over the counter so that he was on eye-level with the infernal device. He waved a hand vaguely behind him, and it took a moment for Berwald to realize that he was asking for the receipt shreds before they were handed over. Tino slid the paper towards Arthur's baby, putting on his best innocent expression to go with the puppy-dog eyes he was making. He leaned towards the machine and whispered, in the sweetest tone he could muster:

_"Please?"_

Berwald's eyebrows rose — even further than they had when his hand had almost been removed — as the jaws of the device opened, gingerly accepted the shreds, filed them with the other remains, and folded back into place with something like a mechanical sigh. Tino patted the console of the device gently, turning to the Swedish man behind him with a pleased smile.

"See?"

"Ah," was the best Berwald could manage, scratching the back of his head nervously. "Th'nks."

"You're welcome," the Finn replied, smile broadening despite the fact that something in the back of his mind was having a panic attack over being so close to the threatening guy. Tino was about to add something else when a voice suddenly piped up across the counter, making both of them jump.

"Hey! Are you guys done with your touching moment? I want coffee!"

A sandy-haired boy, probably no older than twelve years old, stood at the register and quirked his rather thick eyebrows angrily. He had his hands on his hips and was glaring at Tino as if he'd just punched a baby, obviously wondering what the psych major was doing on the wrong side of the counter. Tino flushed in embarrassment and let himself out around the espresso machines, shifting uncomfortably under the loud-mouthed boy's scrutiny. Berwald's expression was unreadable, but judging from the way he had his arms crossed over his chest he wasn't exactly pleased.

"P'ter. I t'ld y'you can't dr'nk c'ffee," he grumbled, turning the sharpness of his gaze on the boy. "An' y're bein' r'de."

"Arthur lets me drink coffee," Peter retorted, sticking his tongue out impudently. Berwald raised a brow.

"D's he n'w?"

"Yeah! And if that pisses you off," the boy said, smiling a wily smile, "you should help me piss _him_ off!"

While the guys at the counter began their little discussion, Tino crept back to his table to make a note of what he'd learned about Berwald in the few moments they'd spent battling the possessed receipt sorter. He slipped out his notebook as a high pitched whine started up behind him, most likely coming from Peter, who seemed to be trying to get Berwald to open the cash drawer of the register. Tino retrieved the ball point pen he'd tucked behind his ear earlier in the day and began to add an entry to Berwald's profile, which was rapidly consuming what paper he had left in his little black book.

_Thursday_

_Patient, in a workplace environment, is surprisingly prompt and well put together, and is possessed of good manners. Patient's speaking skills are a little rough, and he has an accent that cannot be recognized. Patient is not easily startled, and seems to openly accept that he is intimidating. Judging from this, one could assert that the patient has had a past that would render him impossible to spook and used to scaring people, which is highly supportive of the gang theory… Berwald makes good cocoa, though..._

Tino added the last sentence as an afterthought before he trailed off and dropped his pen, which rolled away over the surface of the small table he'd returned to.

He'd forgotten his cocoa on the counter while he'd been checking out Arthur's Magus Opus Whatever-the-fuck, and it was probably ice cold and congealed into some gross substance you were supposed to pray to the coffee gods to avoid. The Finnish man bit his lip and glanced over to where Peter had started throwing empty cups at Berwald in childish rage before he gathered his things, got up, and slipped past the boy to grab his cup — which, of course, was cold as the grave and disturbingly spongy. Berwald flashed an irritated look at Peter one last time before he put his hands down on the counter and leaned over it to _purposefully _menace the boy.

"Y're bein' r'de," he repeated, tone brooking no argument. "An' y're d'sturbin' th'custom'r. _Leave." _

The last word was emphasized to the point where Berwald's thick accent disappeared, causing Tino to almost drop the remains of his cocoa as he tried to hide his surprise. Peter only glared harder at the much taller man and stuck out his tongue again.

"Jeez! It'd only be a pop-up snake in the cash drawer! You're such a stick in the mud!"

Peter swivelled on one foot with a grace only elementary schoolers and ballet gurus possess and stormed out of the shop, waving his arms and stomping all the way. Tino watched for a moment before he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to face Berwald, who was holding a piping hot cup of cocoa out to him and gesturing to take the old one.

"S'rry," he mumbled, tossing the compromised cup out while avoiding Tino's eyes. "He's... Mhm."

"It's no problem," the Finnish man replied before gesturing to the fresh cup of cocoa. "You really didn't have to do this, you know."

Berwald nodded dismissively before he suddenly paused and looked at Tino more closely than he had at any other point that evening. The smaller blond shrunk under the scrutiny, wondering what the taller man was looking at, and, if he, like everyone else, was feeling the sudden urge to pat him on the head or something similarly emasculating.

"Y're th't guy... fr'm th'oth'r n'ght..." he finally said, his accent chewing his words to bits. Tino blinked before he realized that Berwald was talking about when they'd "run into each other" in the hallway of their apartments the day before yesterday.

"Yeah! Oh, I'd completely forgotten — we're neighbours!" the Finn replied, smiling before he took an experimental sip of his cocoa. "I don't think we've ever been properly introduced. I'm Tino Väinämöinen."

"B'rw'ld Ox'nst'rna," the taller man murmured in response, looking a little nervous as he offered his hand to Tino. "Pl's'd t'm't ya."

Tino nodded and took the hand offered, shaking it briefly as he marvelled at how much bigger than his it was. The neon clock on the opposite wall flashed with the hour, and it was only then that the Finnish man realized it was four o' clock in the morning _and_ he had a seven o' clock analysis of the human super-ego to attend. He smiled apologetically as he collected his cup and effects off the counter where he'd set them to shake Berwald's hand.

"Sorry, I've got an early class..." he said, heading towards the door with an apologetic smile. "See you around!"

Berwald nodded and moved back to his position directly behind the register without another word, watching quietly as Tino pushed open the "pull" door through sheer force of will and wandered out into the early morning gloom, his pale blond hair and white beret standing out starkly against the dark street outside.

"G'night," he finally said, chagrined as the only things to hear him were the espresso machines and the empty tables.

Dammit.

Next time for sure.

* * *

**A/N:** Ah, Sweden. So lovably socially awkward. :D

Anyway, thanks for reading all the way to the end!

- C


	5. Gang Activity

**A/N:** So laaaate. There's just no excuse. -commits honourable suicide-

Anyway, sorry this is so late! I'm not even going to try to make excuses, I'm just gonna say, "Thanks for everything, here's the chapter!".

But that would be inadequate.

BECAUSE, I MEAN, 60+ REVIEWS? FOR FOUR CHAPTERS? YOU GUYS DESERVE A _SUPER _THANKS! Additional thanks to all the people who may not have felt like reviewing, but took the time to +alert, +fave, or +author alert/fave. I really appreciate your efforts to support me and my writing. :D

On with the chapter! Somehow, in the process of trying to get absolutely _everything_ I wanted in this chapter on the page, it became super long! So, I guess this is another way of thanking you! Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hetalia, booze, or a concealed carry permit. That's only Switzerland.

* * *

_Berwyn! Hey!_

_I'm just writing to let you know that the rent will be going up! Haha, exciting, am I right? I know I called, but you seem like the kind of guy who'd rather eat his answering machine than pick up his messages! Whatever! Anyway, the new rent is $1500 a month!_

_Just kidding! Did you die? Hilarious!_

_It's actually only $1499! Do you love me or what? _

_There'll be a big meeting in the conference room on Saturday so that I can "address concerns" or whatever. It's at five. Be there or I'll evict you!_

_— Me!_

Berwald didn't have to see a proper signature to know who had left the note — which was written on the back of a liquor store receipt, of all things — that was taped to the door of his apartment. He didn't need a proper signature to feel a twitch starting up below his left eye, or to tug the note free of the tape holding it and crumple it into a tiny ball of pure frustration bordering on rage. He also didn't need a proper signature to get so righteously pissed that he almost put his fist through an adjacent wall. He had no idea why Denmark felt that going from $550 a month to $1499 was a justifiable jump, or why, in fact, the boisterous man suddenly needed an extra nine-hundred fifty something dollars — all he knew was that Saturday's meeting was going to be very _interesting._

Very, _very _interesting.

It was then that Berwald noticed that Denmark had left a post script scrawled in cheap blue ink, not on the bottom of the receipt (not that he could've read that anyway, what with it currently being ground under the heel of his shoe), but _on the wood of his door_. It read:

_P.S. I let myself in so I could take all your booze for collateral against the rent, but I ended up just drinking it all on the spot! Go buy some more, or something! (_There was a little smilie-face-thing drawn next to this line that looked something like X^P) _Oh, and I broke a lamp! Tough luck!_

_..._

Berwald had just gotten home from what had been one of the longest Fridays of his life. Not only had the lathe been out of the shop for some routine repair, but some idiot had thought it was a good idea to answer his cell phone while working with the circular saw, and had cut off the better part of his hand. The majority of his day had consisted of getting the kid out of the saw and into the ambulance, and then cleaning up the gory mess, as no one else had been willing to do it. He had blood stains on his new white shirt he wasn't entirely sure he could get out.

And now he'd have to put all of his savings forward to keep the shabby little apartment Denmark had deigned to lease him.

Berwald took a deep breath. Then he took a couple more. He let himself in, stowed his bag, and sank into a couch he'd taken pride in building himself after many hours of hard work and dangerous attempts at lifting it in through the apartment's sliding glass door. Feeling considerably calmer, Berwald leaned back into his hand upholstered cushions and began to think. He would be able to handle everything if he just stopped panicking.

Tomorrow he would withdraw his savings from the bank before attending the "big meeting", where he would try to talk some reason into Denmark's head. If that failed, he would hand over his savings and begin working on some commissions to replenish them. He would also file a report about the circular saw incident with his professor tomorrow; tonight he would soak his shirt in cold water and try to get the blood stains out with a bleach paste, or a lemon juice recipe he'd stumbled across online.

Troubles sorted for the moment, Berwald was just about to get up and handle the shirt situation when his phone rang in a series of three short beeps. He picked it up on the second and answered with his usual grumble of greeting.

"Hnnm?"

"_HEY! SWISS BASTARD! WHERE ARE YOU?"_

Berwald raised a brow. Oh. Right. The meet-up at Antonio's bar. It sounded like that little "meeting" had already devolved into the drunken party it usually was, just judging by the fact that Lovino seemed to think he had to scream every word.

"H'me," Berwald grumbled.

"_YOU'RE GONNA BE LATE, YA STUPID SWISS BASTARD!"_ Lovino screeched, before abruptly ending the call and leaving Berwald to sigh as a dial tone started up on the other end of the line. The Italian didn't even bother to ask if Berwald would care to come, because he knew just as well as anybody else that the Swede rarely got to relax with people who wouldn't run at the sight of him.

"'M not th' Sw'ss bast'rd…" he mumbled into the phone, knowing it did no good but wanting to say it anyway. He pulled on the coat he'd taken off upon walking in the door and grabbed his keys again before letting himself out.

Screw it all, he'd get his affairs in order tomorrow. For tonight, he wanted to relax.

* * *

"Unnnnngrh…" Tino groaned as he leaned against the little reception desk he and his fellow host were stationed behind, absolutely exhausted. He'd gotten all of two hours of sleep before Denmark and Norway had decided that six o' clock in the morning was the perfect time for a techno rave. Needless to say, Tino, being a light sleeper, had been running since then, going from class to class and finally to work. He'd managed to land a job at the Carriedo Bar and Grill only a week ago, and was doing his best to impress the owner and his co-workers will his hard work and determination.

But God… When you were running on two hours of sleep, hard work and determination suuuuucked…

"Long night?" his fellow host, a man by the name of Im Yong Soo, asked with a suggestive wiggle of the eyebrows. Tino nodded, missing the innuendo altogether, and sunk down further against the counter.

"Don't do that," the Korean man chided, waving one of his overly long shirt sleeves at the exhausted Finn. "I may have started this bar, but Mr. Carriedo owns it now, and while he may not do anything, his little boy toy will bitch if you're not at attention."

Tino nodded and straightened up with a tired sigh, knowing exactly who Yong Soo was referring to when he said "boy toy". There was a loud-mouthed Italian who stopped in almost every night, and their boss, Antonio, hadn't exactly made a secret of their relationship. While Antonio might be good-natured enough to let a sleepy Tino off early, Lovino would start a scene about any lack of service, and the Spanish man would come down a little harsher than usual because of it. In plain terms, he appeared to be wrapped around Lovino's finger, though Tino's instincts sometimes made him think the opposite was true (his instincts also told him the Yong Soo had never owned the place, but that was a lot more obvious, as he claimed that he had owned _everything_ at some point or another).

Of course, Tino's instincts weren't always so useful — for example, when a certain tall, blond, scary-looking Swede stepped into the grill with a blood-stained shirt, his instincts told him to perform a diversionary tactic and roll under the counter.

He just barely passed it off as diving for a dropped dime.

"Welcome to the Carriedo Bar and Grill," he and Yong Soo chimed at the same time. "Do you have a reservation?"

Berwald looked like he'd been thrown off balance by their simultaneous greetings and settled for a shake of the head and a gesture to the back of the grill.

"'M w'th th'm."

Yong Soo looked at him blankly, but Tino replied promptly, having gotten a working handle on Berwald's unique take on the English language.

"Alright. This way, then," he replied, stepping out from behind the counter and leading Berwald towards where he assumed the man meant, seeing as he'd only been a host there for a week. "You're meeting up with another party, correct?"

Berwald nodded, and then, realizing that Tino couldn't see him, mumbled assent.

"M'fr'nds," he added, trying to get a better look at Tino. "H've we… 're you…?"

Tino turned a little and smiled, trying to pretend he'd just realized who Berwald was as well, and that he totally wasn't freaked out that the taller man had blood on him.

"Oh yeah, you're Berwald! Funny how we keep running into each other all the time!"

The Swede gave him a strange look.

"S'only b'n thr' t'mes."

Tino panicked internally. Now was not the best time to get his covert observation (it wasn't stalking, really, it wasn't) confused with actually _seeing_ the other man.

"Oh, right," he said. "It just seemed like more… do you come here often?"

Berwald nodded and was about to answer when he was suddenly interrupted by a shout from across the back room he and Tino had just stepped into.

"OH, YOU'RE FINALLY HERE, YA SWISS BASTARD!"

"'M n't th' Sw'ss bast'rd."

"He's not the Swiss bastard!

Lovino ignored both Berwald and Vash, sloshing himself another drink as he waved to a man with shoulder-length blond hair and a devious-looking smirk.

"FRANCIS! BRING A CHAIR!"

Tino glanced around quickly as the man brought over one of the many chairs that were stacked in the corner of the room. There were quite a few people, very few of which he recognized, and very few of which looked coherent. The image of the completely smashed group, as well as further blood stains revealed when Berwald shed his coat, said only one thing to Tino's sleep-deprived mind:

_Gang!_

"C-can I get you anything?" he asked Berwald, pulling out his memo pad. "We've got a couple of drink specials on tonight, as well as — "

"No, no, no, he never orders anything like that, _mon cher_," Francis cut in. "He's the… 'designated driver' or some silliness. But you can give _me_ something…"

"Yes?" Tino asked, tapping his pen against the page.

"Your number," the Frenchman purred, slipping an arm around the Finn's waist seductively. Tino went red up to the tips of his ears and spun out of the sly man's grip, mentally thanking Elizabeta for teaching him how to get out of such situations smoothly.

"Sir, I'm afraid I can't—"

"No, what the hell are you doing, you friggin' idiot!" another man said, this one with platinum blond hair and strange red eyes. "You've gotta be more direct!"

Another arm shot out, but it was more forceful in grabbing Tino and pulling him down next to the red-eyed man.

"You, me, a house in a—"

A taller blond man behind Tino's assailant smacked him upside the head, making him bite his tongue and begin cursing in German. Tino sprung out of the booth he'd been pulled into, inwardly cursing how small he was. He swivelled on his feet, looking like he was about ready to start bringing the place down around the entire gang's ears, when he ran straight into Berwald, who was still standing and had moved to Tino's aid when he'd first been grabbed, but hadn't been quite as quick as the other man. Up close, Tino had to tilt his head almost all the way back just to look the Swede in the eye, and, when he did, the expression on the man's face was like ice cubes running down his spine.

"Gilb'rt," Berwald grumbled, looking straight over Tino's head at the platinum blond. Nothing else needed to be said. The look on the Swede's face was enough. Threat clearly communicated, he focused on Tino, who immediately looked terrified.

"G'rd'n s'l'd," he mumbled at the Finnish man, who took a second before he realized that Berwald was ordering an entrée, not grumbling the gory details of his demise.

"O-oh! Right! Salad!" Tino sputtered, nearly dropping his memo pad as he fumbled to take down the order. "What kind of dressing would you like?"

"Caes'r."

"Right, I'll get that right away!" Tino said, seizing his chance to run away as it was presented. The moment after he stepped out of the private room, the occupants burst into laughter, leaving him to rush back to the kitchens more red than when Francis had tried his luck flirting. He slammed through the kitchen door and pressed himself against an adjacent wall, feeling his heart racing a mile a minute. The bar and grill's head chef, who was chopping vegetables at a nearby counter, raised a thin brow questioningly before he went back to speed dicing a carrot.

"What's wrong with you, aru?"

"Nothing," Tino gasped. "The gang wants a salad."

"The 'gang'?" the chef asked, tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind his ear. "You mean Berwald? He's the only one who eats anything other than liquor, aru."

"Yeah, sure, whatever, him," the Finn grumbled, adjusting his beret — a move that was starting to become something of a nervous tic. "Garden salad, Caesar. And be quick, or else he'll kill me. I think."

The chef just laughed and pulled the ingredients together, tossing them idly.

"You've got nothing to worry about from that 'gang' — other than Francis, aru."

"Whaddya mean?" Tino hissed. "They're out there, getting drunk, carousing—"

"And that's _all_ they _ever_ do," the other man cut in. "The only person in that little group who could do anyone, any harm, is Berwald, and the most dangerous thing he'd think of doing with a hammer is disassembling a deck, aru."

"So…?" Tino purposefully trailed off, waiting for the chef to finish his thought.

"So, go take this salad, and hope that — God forbid," at this the chef feigned a terrified swoon with a soft laugh, "the big bad 'gang' doesn't pour beer on your shoes."

Tino pouted his most manly and furious pout as he grabbed the finished salad out of the chef's hands and charged back out of the kitchen doors, striding purposefully through the rest of the restaurant until he reached the batwing doors into the private room once more.

* * *

Berwald had no idea why, but he was really _fucking_ embarrassed.

"Cheer up, Berwald, that pretty little waiter will be back anytime now..."

Oh, yeah, that was why.

"Fr'ncis," he grumbled. "Y're h'rrible."

"_Non, non_," Francis insisted. "He was too cute to pass up, and besides, it was just some harmless teasing — "

The doors of the private room opened, and Berwald looked up to find Tino standing in the doorway, one hand braced on his hip, the other supporting the plate with Berwald's salad on it. His expression was one of embarrassed defiance, as if daring anyone in the room to try and mess with him again. He took a bold step forward, and in a clear voice, said:

"Garden salad?"

Berwald hesitantly raised his hand, and was nearly startled out of his seat when Tino slammed the plate down in front of him, glaring. He clearly hadn't needed to ask who'd ordered the salad — he could probably recognize Berwald from a mile away by now — but he obviously wanted it to be known that he wasn't screwing around, and the Swede just happened to be the easiest target. Their eyes met for a brief second — Tino's fiery and flustered, Berwald's as cold and unreadable as usual — and then Berwald ducked his head and began eating his salad complacently, as if he wasn't feeling any of the waves of frustration washing over him from Tino's direction.

It took about ten seconds of him blankly munching on some lettuce, and then, like air being let out of a balloon, Tino's righteous — and thoroughly embarrassed — anger slowly dissipated. The tension leaving the room was palatable.

"I apologize for not giving you one earlier, but here's a menu now," Tino said, his tone returning to its normal cheerfulness as he extracted a menu from his apron. "If you'd like anything else, just let one of the wait staff know, and I'll come take your order. Enjoy."

Without another word he bustled out, apparently going right back to work. Berwald was left blinking in his wake, feeling strangely like the rare prisoner at a hanging whose noose snaps just in the nick of time. The rest of the gang shared his silence for a moment before they once again burst into wild laughter and beer sloshing. Berwald shook his head and got a few more bites of greens down before another dish was set in front of him, this time presented to him by a grinning Feliciano. Berwald raised an eyebrow, which was met with a happy laugh on the Italian's part.

"I promised you, didn't I?" he said. "Something yummy?"

Berwald looked at him owlishly for a second, and then straightened up, obviously remembering something.

"Oh. Mhm. W'nt well th'n?"

Feliciano just smiled at him again and went to sit with Ludwig, who, while he looked a little flustered, didn't scoot away when Feli proceeded to drape himself all over him, as he usually did. Lovino took one look at his lounging brother and 'the potato bastard' and cleared his throat loudly.

"OY! COULD WE TRY TO ACTUALLY _PLAN_ HERE?"

"No," Vash and another man, named Sadiq, said simultaneously, clinking their glasses together. Gilbert and Francis sniggered, and Antonio, who'd joined them shortly after Tino left the last time, chuckled a bit himself. Lovino was frowning so hard he was liable to sprain something.

"You're supposed to be _my_ fucking mafia, for God's sake, but do you ever listen to what I say? NO!" he growled, only seeming to get angrier when Antonio patted his thigh in an attempt to sooth him. Gilbert rolled his eyes and slid another beer across the table towards them, reclining in his chair as he cleared his throat to speak.

"Back in our day…" he drawled, gesturing to Francis and Antonio, "…we didn't take shit off nobody. _Mein Gott_, Lovi, if you tried a little harder…"

"What're you talking about, 'back in your day'?" Vash interrupted with a condescending snort. "You were a freshman when those two were gallivanting about, causing general mischief. Like you were anything to talk about in terms of gangs."

"As a young theatre major," Gilbert protested with a flourish, "naturally I am something to talk about. Besides, my awesome was the sole reason the Bad Touch Trio was so well known that year."

"_Non_, I must protest!" Francis cut in. "Obviously it was I who — "

"Guys, I'm pretty sure — "

"Aggh, get your hand off my leg, tomato bastard!"

"Ve, Ludwig, do you want some of this? It's really good~"

"_Ach du lieber_, we're going to get kicked out…"

"Naw, we never get kicked out!"

"If you all don't shut up, I'll actually take advantage of my concealed carry permit."

"_Siktir!_ Like you even go to the trouble of 'concealing', Vash!"

Berwald ate his salad quietly, basking in the energetic argument and general chaos around him. Most people thought of them as an eyesore, but Berwald had learned early on that you should never judge a book by its cover, and enjoyed his 'gang' more for everyone's individual personalities than the 'menacing group' they were supposed to represent. Besides which, these people were some of the rare few that _didn't_ think that him having a screwdriver in his bag constituted a danger to the public. He glanced up at the clock over the rims of his glasses as he set aside his plate and sighed, a little disappointed that he hadn't gotten to the grill earlier, as it was already so late.

"G'ys, m'ybe we sh'ld t'ne it d'wn… S'gettin' late…" he suggested, wrapping up the pasta dish Feliciano had made for him. Immediately, everyone turned to glare at him.

"HELL NO!"

"Fuck off!"

"The night is still young~"

"HANDS OFF, FRANCIS."

Oh well. It was worth a try.

* * *

"C'mon, S'diq, try t'walk."

Tino looked up from his intent study of his wrist watch to see Berwald practically carrying a very drunken Turkish man towards the door, closely followed by his other companions, who were alternately falling all over themselves, completely wasted, or trying to bribe Antonio into selling them some of his best cognac. It was almost the end of the Finn's shift, and he'd been vaguely wondering how long Berwald and his 'gang' usually stuck around, as it was already nearly three o' clock in the morning. Berwald approached the desk and sorted out everyone's tab, then checked a bag he had with him for some reason.

"G'lbert, y'r key, pleas'."

The Prussian grumbled a bit but eventually handed it over, saying something about 'being awesome enough to drive', and how Berwald was somehow 'psychic' for knowing he'd snuck his car keys out of the bag. The Swede shook his head and shooed the man out to a van that was parked near the bar's front entrance, which obviously wasn't his, as Tino had it on authority that the only vehicle he owned was a motorbike. Not that he'd gone down to the garage and checked, or anything. Certainly not.

"Designated driver?" Tino asked as Berwald pulled out his wallet to pay his own bill. He got a nod out of the man, but not much else, as the Swede seemed to be a little zoned out. He was wearing the same expression as the night Tino had popped into the café, and before the Finn could second guess himself, he'd already asked what was on his mind.

"What are you thinking about?"

Berwald looked down at him, obviously not used to people asking him stuff like that.

"J'ck rafters," he said instantly, not seeming surprised when Tino gave him a blank look. He took his receipt and tucked it away in his wallet before he added anything else.

"S'rry. I've g't a t'st t'morrow. Carp'ntry."

"Oh, carpentry…" Tino mused, _finally_ getting the chef's joke about Berwald and decks. "Good luck then!"

Berwald nodded and then paused for a moment before he turned away, looking like he wanted to say something. The Finn gave him a questioning look.

"G'night," he finally said, and let himself out, much to the thankful grumblings of his 'gang', which had already been waiting out in the cold for several minutes. Tino blinked and wished him good night as well, wondering what that was all about.

Then he realized that this was the first time that Berwald had ever said 'good night' to him. Or greeted him formally in any way, for that matter.

With a small smile, Tino pulled his little black notebook out of his utility apron and scrawled some notes in his neat hand.

_Friday_

_The patient, if he is still to be considered 'in a gang', obviously isn't very good at picking them. His friends don't seem particularly dangerous. Initial calculations may be wrong… Berwald seems to mostly suffer from communication problems. Further investigation is needed, however._

Oh yeah, that was the other thing. Tino had meant to ask Berwald if he was going to Denmark's meeting Saturday, but he'd completely blanked on it.

Well, he'd find out tomorrow, wouldn't he?

* * *

**A/N:** Somehow, I always thought that sweet tempered little Finland might have the potential to burst into righteous fury every once in a while. That was obscenely fun to write. XD

Wow, you made it! Good job! I wanted this chapter to focus more on character enrichment than action, because the character enrichment is what makes the action flow better later on, am I right? Anyway, I'll definitely update sooner with the next chapter - for some reason, even though I have this whole story outlined, this chapter was the one I was most hung up on. But I made it through, so expect more updates! :D

Meh, on a random, rambly note, I was reading this one fanfiction the other day, and I just wanted to say: FRIENDS DON'T LET FRIENDS WRITE MARY SUES. If you see me endangering a character with bad writing, you guys will let me know in a review, right? I'd really appreciate it, because I want this fic to be a fun read for you guys, and I know that reading a Mary Sue often kills my enjoyment of a story. D:

That aside, I'd love it if you'd drop me a review for any reason; let me know what you think. Like I said, I PROMISE THE NEXT UPDATE WON'T TAKE SO LONG.

Thanks - ESPECIALLY - for reading to the very end today!

- C


	6. Snap Decisions

**A/N: **I PROMISED THIS UPDATE WOULD BE QUICKER. -is shot- In keeping with the last chapter, and by reviewer request (LOVE YOU GUYS), it's nice and long. To prevent any unintentional stiffness or leg cramping while reading, I suggest the following warm-up exercise.

1. Find a computer or sound system, and get one of the following songs blasting out of it: _Footloose_ by Kenny Loggins, _Hot Blooded_ by Foreigner, or _Time Warp_ from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. I recommend the first one.

2. Dance around like a crazy person, flail your arms, and sing along loudly to the music. Be as ridiculous as you can be. As a side note, it might be better for your reputation (if you have one to uphold, that is) if you make sure no one can see you. If you really don't care, I could teach you a dance I like to call "The Spastic Jellyfish" which is really a great crowd pleaser- oh, right, getting on with the chapter.

3. Cool off for a sec. That was fun, but suddenly sitting down after exercise can... uh... do bad stuff. Or something. Use this opportunity to please Finland by eating some delicious salmiakki!

4. Enjoy the chapter. I wrote it just for you. :D

**WARNINGS: **Denmark.

* * *

It was Saturday, it was five o' clock and, by anyone's watch, it was Denmark Time. Of course, Denmark Time was _all _the time to the man himself, and he seemed to be having a sort of happy hour as every tenant in his apartment complex gathered in his living room (aka "the meeting room", as it was — unsurprisingly — the largest room in the complex) and watched his every move, jumpy as jack rabbits from the news of the soon-to-be rent increase.

Those eyes that weren't focused on the enthusiastic blond were usually drawn to what he kept on the mantle of a fireplace that was the most prominent feature of the room — a full size battle axe, handle worn smooth with age and use, the metal of the blade polished and gleaming as if it was still ready for battle, despite the fact that it'd allegedly been in Denmark's family for generations. Somehow, as those people in attendance began to claim seats, Tino found himself naturally gravitating towards Berwald, as even though he was friendly with his neighbours, he didn't know any of them as well as he knew the Swede.

Besides, Berwald was the only other person who looked as utterly exhausted as he did; as they say, misery loves company.

"Morning," he murmured as he settled into one of the wooden kitchen chairs Denmark had dragged into the living room for the occasion. Berwald leaned back in his seat, looking like he'd spent the better part of the night hauling drunken gang members up stairways into houses, which he probably had, and nodded in response.

"G'morning," he greeted, looking possibly more frightening than usual due to the cloud of exhaustion hovering over his already stormy expression. Amazingly, Tino didn't find himself as affected by that as he usually would have been, as instead of recoiling in fear from the thunderous look, he took a page out of the other man's book and leaned back in his chair. To his surprise, the wood seemed to subtly adjust to accommodate him, somewhat like a gliding chair. Berwald glanced over as the Finnish man let out a small noise of surprise and almost lost his beret, caught off guard by the furniture's little innovation.

"Oh, s'rry…" Berwald remarked, reaching out a hand to steady the back of the chair. "S'got a spring-loaded, adjust'ble back."

"How'd you know?" Tino asked, adjusting to the new position. "Do you have to visit often?"

Berwald shook his head and looked a bit embarrassed.

"No. I m'de these. G't behind on the r'nt."

Tino blinked at him and then looked down at his chair, testing the smooth, gliding action of the backrest one more time.

"Wow… I'd heard people say you built stuff, but this is..."

Whatever it was, Berwald didn't get to hear, as the last of the tenants finished finding seats and Denmark's 'roommate', Norway, cleared his throat to speak.

"The meeting's on," was all he said, his expression as impassive as it ever was. Even Berwald chuckled a bit at how few words Norway spared the assembled audience, but the man himself didn't seem interested in their opinion of him, and casually went back to doing word puzzles out of a book in his lap. Denmark returned from the kitchen, where he'd apparently been raiding the fridge, and threw himself down in a chair next to the Norwegian, grinning as if it were Christmas and not a discussion of rental properties.

"So, what's up?" he asked, as if completely oblivious to why everyone was staring at him.

"Rent," Norway reminded him, not bothering to look up from his book of puzzles. Denmark clapped once, vigorously, and his grin was renewed with gusto.

"Oh, right! You guys owe me money!"

"Why?" one of the tenants asked bluntly, looking as agitated as Berwald — he was obviously on the receiving end of a similarly egregious rate hike. Denmark laughed a little, abashedly, and scratched the back of his head, trying not to meet anyone's eyes.

"Well, okay, it's kinda a long story..." he began vaguely, elbowing his roommate in an obvious to get some moral support, which he was coldly denied, "but anyway, me an' Norge here were just messing around in this one place, and before we knew it we had broken some stuff, y'know, like a few windows and crap, and when the police showed up we ended up not only having to pay bail, but also pay for the windows and stuff, and yeah…"

There was a general blank look shared throughout the audience.

"A few windows?" Tino repeated, tone questioning. "Then why do you have to raise the rent? Surely a few broken chairs and some glass wouldn't—"

"Church," Norway cut in, levelling Denmark a look that could've peeled paint.

"Huh?"

"Yeah… that…" Denmark continued. "The broken windows and stuff were kinda religious, if you know what I mean…"

"Wait… you br'ke out wind'ws…" Berwald said slowly, disbelief apparent as he put the pieces together, "…in a cath'dral?"

"Well yeah," Denmark admitted, "but it was awesome."

"In a cathedral? IN _THE _CATHEDRAL?"

Suddenly everyone was on their feet, waving arms and yelling – well, everyone but Norway – and Denmark was forced to slowly back towards the wall, raising his hands, palms out, as if to say 'not the face, please not the face'.

"Geez, guys, the bill was only about two thousand bucks, and most of you guys will have to pay only fifty dollars more, at most!" he tried, looking to his Norwegian roommate for help – he was denied even eye contact.

"My rent went up by a hundred!" the man who had first spoken cut in, waving his fist angrily. Denmark made some excuses about working to lower it, the rest of the tenants settled into grumbled complaining, Tino sighed and shook his head, and Norway just kept doing his word puzzles, seemingly oblivious.

While all this was going on, Berwald was doing some serious mental math.

He was one of only twenty residents of the _Danmarken Godser_, Denmark's small apartment complex, which was massively shabby when compared to the other complexes nestled around the university. It was prime real estate for college students, with the rent being so low, and as of now it was full to its capacity – twenty-two people, including the landlord and said land lord's boyfri—err, roommate. If the bill for Denmark's cathedral destruction and subsequent bail bond had amounted to roughly $2000, then everyone should've been paying roughly ninety extra bucks, and only for one month.

Instead, the majority of the residents were paying around fifty dollars, with the exception of that other guy who'd had a full hundred tacked on.

And, of course, himself. It didn't even look like the Dane and his Norwegian 'friend' were contributing a spare cent – it'd all ended up on Berwald's tab, and looked to remain a fun part of his rent _indefinitely._

He raised a hand.

"C'n I ask," he said, making an effort to keep his tone neutral and blood pressure down, "why _my_ bill is f'r _nine_ hundred and _fifty_ dollars?"

Tino, who'd gone and gotten himself one of the cups of water that had been so _courteously _set out for the meeting, promptly choked mid-gulp and almost died.

_"What?"_

A hurried whispered washed over the other tenants as they alternately gasped over how outrageous the rent hike was or thanked their lucky stars that they weren't that _particular_ Swede. Berwald locked eyes with his landlord for a moment, demanding an answer.

"Because I hate you," Denmark replied flatly, never once losing his bubbly grin.

This was true; Denmark had been fostering a poisonous hatred towards Berwald ever since he'd nearly run down the man in the street with his monster of an SUV. He'd ended up having to not only pay the bills for the repair of the Swedish man's motorbike, but also the bills for the lawyer who'd worked on Berwald's behalf to get him that compensation.

Yes, it had gone to court. Berwald had won the case by default after Denmark showed up for the hearing happily smashed, with a blood alcohol content well over the legal limit.

Berwald hadn't been a resident of the complex at that time, but, needless to say, the signing of the lease had been a tense affair only brought about because Denmark wanted to get his money back from the Swede by any means necessary. The means necessary had been an excessively high security deposit.

And yet, despite all the petty revenge, Denmark had never stopped hating the other man. Berwald would be a liar if he said the feeling wasn't _completely _mutual.

Berwald would also be a liar if he said that the twitch below his eye – the one seemingly only caused by Denmark – hadn't started up again, in force, and that he wasn't clenching the arms of his chairs so tightly that his knuckles had blanched.

"So," he ground out, just for clarification, "m'payin' nearly a thous'nd extra d'llars _a month_, because _y'hate me_?"

"Yup."

Really, no one could claim that Berwald didn't have unparalleled impulse control. If he didn't, he probably would have put his well made chair through Denmark's head. As it was, the window to the man's left took the brunt of his pent up aggravation.

"WHAT THE FUCK?" Denmark cried amidst a shower of broken glass, throwing his chair down too, more out of a need to physically do something than any kind of fury. "That was favourite friggin' window, ya damn Swede!"

"S'rry," Berwald said, "but f'ck you."

He turned and stormed out, leaving the rest of the tenants, and even impassive Norway, stunned. Snapping out of his daze only a few moments later, Tino stood too, though he didn't participate in any dramatic chair throwing. One of the things that had compelled him to seek a career in psychology was his empathy for most everybody, but right now that empathy wasn't tenderly tugging at his heartstrings as it usually did when he counselled someone. If any of the gang he'd waited on at the grill last night had been in residence, they would've seen the flush in Tino's fair cheeks and the fervour in his eyes, cried 'DUCK!', and gotten under a table.

The Finn had now broken his current record for instances of spontaneous rage, which had previously only been allotted to him once a week.

"That's not fair," Tino asserted, trying to sound as calm as he could while his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I'm with Berwald on this."

Possessed with righteous indignation, he huffed right out the door after the Swede, pausing only once in the doorway to stick his head back into the room and yell, "...and techno music sucks!"

Stunned by the seemingly unexpected outburst from a man who had previously been one his quietest, most respectful tenants, Denmark joined the rest of the room in a state of shocked silence. It only took a moment, however, for his usual grin to reappear, and for him to retrieve the rental agreements of one Berwald Oxenstierna from a box he'd stashed under his chair in case anyone had wanted to negotiate new terms of lease.

"Hey, Norge," he cooed, turning to his roommate, who'd shut his puzzle book upon Tino's dramatic exit, "guess what time it is?"

"I don't know, Danmark," he said, tone dripping sarcasm, "unfortunately not everyone can keep up with your dizzying intellect."

Denmark missed the snark and just patted Norway on the head pityingly, tossing the Swede's file into the fireplace to be burned later.

"That's okay, Norge, you try. I'll give you a hint; what starts with 'e' and ends with 'viction'?"

"Can I phone a friend?" the man deadpanned.

Secretly, Norway was amused. It was about damn time Berwald got the boot. He was tired of the two men fist-fighting around his good china.

* * *

Berwald was already two blocks away before he heard footsteps that didn't belong to him echoing in the street. He paused and turned, ready for a confrontation, but was surprised to find Tino where he'd expected Denmark, his cheeks rosy from his now fading anger and the chilly air. Tino caught up with him before pausing to catch his breath, slightly winded.

"You realize", he wheezed, "that for every step you take, I have to take three? That's _so_ not fair."

"S'rry," Berwald mumbled, looking abashed even though he hadn't really done anything – other than put a chair through a window, but that was a completely different subject. Tino just laughed and shook his head.

"You don't have to apologize, I was just playing!" the Finn said with a smile. "Anyway, are you okay? I can't believe Denmark raised your rate so much a-and... what's with that look?"

Berwald was staring intensely down at Tino, and now that the smaller blond was more awake, the Swede's gaze menaced him as it usually did. He mentally sorted through all the disorders he knew that might have been aggravated by confrontation or a giant spike in blood pressure due to excessively high rent.

"...are _you_ ok'y?" the taller man asked, obviously trying to convey worry through his expression, but sadly failing. "I mean, y'follow'd me..."

Tino gave him a blank look for a moment, and then, like a semi full of bricks hurtling down the road at 127 miles per hour, it hit him.

"Oh... my... God..." he groaned, sinking to sit on the curb, "...I got carried away... heat of the moment... oh, my _house_..."

Berwald watched with growing worry as Tino curled in on himself, somehow – even though it seemed impossible – becoming even smaller. The Finn's mind, frantically trying to figure out a way he _wouldn't _be evicted for yelling at his landlord and huffing out of a community meeting like a petulant child, was busy working itself into tighter and tighter knots, and he felt his breathing become a little shallow and much more rapid. He couldn't afford a panic attack right now – or ever again, really – especially not in the middle of the street in front of God and everybody—

And then a big, warm hand was placed on the top of his head. With its solid weight came a feeling of grounding, as if his rapidly fleeing calm had been grabbed by the ankles and dragged right back where it belonged. He looked up to find Berwald staring not at him, but down the road, as if he was charting the distance to some unknown destination.

"Y'll be alr'ght," he mumbled. "We'll fig're somethin' out."

Somehow, coming from Berwald, in his comfortably grumbly voice, the 'we' was more reassuring than creepy. He extended the other hand, which Tino took, and helped the smaller man to his feet. Obviously he had a plan in mind, but whatever it was, he wasn't sharing yet. He turned around and began walking back towards the apartments he'd left, a confused Tino helplessly following in his wake.

"What are you doing?" he asked. "I don't think Denmark will let us back in..."

"'Course not," he mumbled, "we prob'bly can't stay th'night eith'r."

"So why are we going back?" Tino insisted on asking, grabbing Berwald's sleeve to slow down what he assumed was the start of a long walk down the war path. Berwald's eyes lingered on the Finn's hand before he glanced back up to where they were fast approaching his rented garage. No sign of a partying Denmark auctioning off his stuff to passersby. He guessed that part came later, when the Dane could get more of a crowd.

"Can't g't to a h'tel on foot, c'n we?" he said, lifting the garage door with a smooth motion.

Inside lay Berwald's motorbike, a device soon to test Tino's faith in the Swede, as well as his ability to hang on.

"We're not... going to ride that... are we?" Tino asked, already knowing the answer but hoping against hope that some force of nature would swoop in and save him. It didn't even look like Berwald owned two helmets. The Swede rolled his bike out into the street and closed the garage door behind him. He tossed a leg over it and kicked it into gear, and the machine roared like an angry beast disturbed while sleeping. Tino squeaked a bit and jumped back, almost curling in on himself in fear when Berwald gestured to where he assumed he was supposed to sit.

"C'mon."

Tino perched on the back of the bike, clinging to the taller man for dear life as the bike rumbled beneath them. He was just getting ready to say something along the lines of 'on second thought, let's take the trolley' when, without warning, they peeled out into the street.

Tino might've cried out, but, if he did make a sound, it was soon lost to the wind that blew his hair back from his face and took his breath away.

* * *

_A Psychology Major's Prayer__  
By: Tino __Väinämöinen_

_Dear God, why am I on this bike?__  
Because your presence is everywhere,  
I know you saw that red light.  
But I don't think Berwald did.  
Please, Lord, adjust his mirrors.  
I don't think he thinks he needs them.  
But I know he does.  
There's a semi behind us.  
Oh God,  
in your unending mercy,  
I know you love all living things.  
So when we crash and burn and become greasy spots on this freeway,  
please let me die instantly._

_Amen._

* * *

"Mhmmm... we'll w'nt a gr'nd fl'r r'm."

"_What?" _Tino asked, wondering if Berwald's accent had been worsened by the open-air ride through the chilly night, or whether it was just that his hearing ability had been temporarily disabled by the rush of adrenaline that was currently coursing through his veins, causing his hands to shake like leaves. He'd only been able to slide off the bike into a puddle of Finnish goo when they'd first pulled in because of that very thing.

"Gr'nd floor room," Berwald said, emphasizing his words this time. "We'll w'nt one. For th'bike."

"Ohhhh," Tino replied, nodding. "Right. It's not like there's a garage, huh?"

Berwald looked around the motel parking lot they'd rolled into, locating the office easily. The place looked just the right amount of shabby – shabby enough, that is, for the prices to be good, but not so shabby that a pair of people fist-fighting might tumble through the wall on them at stupid o' clock in the morning. He glanced between the office, his motorbike, and Tino quickly, seeming to be having a small internal crisis. He turned to the Finnish man briefly, as if he was going to hand over the bike and say something along the lines of 'stay with this', before he quickly reconsidered. This place was just the right amount of shabby for it to be dangerous leaving someone as small and non-threatening as Tino alone in the parking lot with a good looking motorbike.

He began walking towards the office, rolling his motorbike with him, and Tino, suddenly feeling much like a duckling, followed.

"Like, omigawd, business is randomly booming. Liet, you have no idea. I think it's my new eyeliner. It's just that amazing."

These were the first words Berwald and Tino heard upon opening the door to the office, and they came from the mouth of a man, who was chattering excitedly to whoever poor 'Liet' was on the other end of the line. The fact that he was a man was well disguised, but still apparent beneath layers of frills and excessive amounts of glitter and sparkly hair clips. Berwald seemed to be frozen in place, but Tino, while stunned, felt his mind racing a thousand miles an hour. _Gender identity disorder? Gender dysphoria? Sexual maturation disorder?_

Diagnoses on the tip of his tongue, Tino was almost startled when Berwald began walking again, heading towards the reception desk with sure strides, as if he totally wasn't wondering about the tranny manning the phones. He'd left his bike propped against the wall outside, and wanted to get their check-in done as quickly as possible so it wasn't left alone for long. The Finnish man performed his duckling routine again, this time only having to follow as far as the front desk.

"Oh, like, hey!" the receptionist finally greeted, obviously having concluded his phone call while they'd stood stock-still in the doorway. "What can I do for _you_?"

"Double, gr'nd floor," Berwald grumbled, placing his hands on the counter as if, like Tino earlier, he needed some serious grounding. For some reason his eyes were fixed on the atrocious wood panelling job along the walls of the room, and, stifling a laugh, Tino realized that this had probably been what had frozen the man in the doorway earlier, not the cross-dressing man behind the desk. The receptionist gave both of them speculative looks before he flipped his hair and slid onto the surface of the desk, an amused smile toying with his well-glossed lips.

"Sorry _boys_, but while we _do_ have _one_ room available, it _isn't_ a double. I'm afraid those are all _full up_."

Berwald, obviously tired and ticked off by the playful tone, was about to ask him to check again, and not very politely, but Tino cut in with a wave of the hands and a gracious smile.

"I'm sure we can work something out, right, Berwald?"

Berwald looked at the Finnish man, who met his gaze with as sweet a smile as he could muster at eleven o' clock at night, and then turned back to the receptionist without another word and asked for the key, which the half-surprised, mostly-amused man gladly handed over. Both Tino and his more fabulous counterpart watched blankly as he left the office to check on his bike, before the receptionist burst into sudden, amused giggles.

"Either he _really_ doesn't want to argue," the man said, tone dripping innuendo, "or you've, like, _totally_ got him wrapped around your little finger."

Tino's best come back was a very tired and confused 'huh?', which he only got a laugh and a shove out the door in response to. Berwald had waited for him, and together they managed to track down their room and wrangle the bike inside to relative safety.

Unfortunately, walking into the room was like belly-flopping on a glacier.

"Jesus!" Tino hissed, rubbing his arms to ward off the terrible chill, which was amazingly even worse than the near-winter weather outside. "What's up with the heater?"

Berwald walked over to the device in question, which, while not magically inclined, perplexed him just as thoroughly as Arthur's 'magical dingus what's-it' back at the 24 Hour Espresso. He pried the cover off of the machine deftly, immediately immersing himself in the machinery as if he'd been born to repair cheap hotel AC/heating systems. Tino waited for a little bit before moving to tap the Swede on the shoulder.

"Do you mind if I hit the shower first, then?" he asked as politely as he could. Berwald's aggravation with the overenthusiastic AC and his exhaustion from the night before were showing on his face, coupling to make an expression that could have peeled paint, despite the man's best intentions. Tino was trying very hard not to run right back out the door into the night, his efforts bolstered by how grateful he was to Berwald for getting them the transportation (even if the ride had shaved thirty years off of Tino's life) and the room (even if it did seem determined to induce hypothermia) that kept them from having to go back and throw themselves on the mercy of Denmark and Norway. He refused to believe that his — probably — being evicted was the Swede's fault; after all, _he'd_ made the choice to go all Spartacus on his landlord...

He slipped into the adjoining bathroom and hesitantly took off his jacket, hissing as the cold, which seemed to have been focused by the tile walls, immediately went to work gnawing on his bones. He moved to set it on the counter, but as he did so his little black notebook fell out onto the floor, surprising him, as he'd forgotten he'd put it in his jacket that morning. He picked it up and scrounged in his pockets for the pen he always kept with it, then boosted himself onto the counter and began to write.

_Saturday_

_ Finally saw what I was waiting for. Berwald lost his temper and lashed out, but the situation in which this occurred made that a pretty reasonable reaction(?). Somehow, it doesn't seem like he loses his temper often. There could be hints of psychological problems in how he drives (I know I'm scarred), but I have less evidence to support that claim than I did for my 'gang theory'. I may have to rethink my whole angle on Berwald..._

Tino trailed off and put his notebook away as the cold on his fingers became unbearable, having to consciously keep himself from tucking his pen behind his ear, it was so much of a habit. He peeked back out into main part of the room, finding Berwald still immersed in the broken AC system and trying to use one of the complimentary hotel pencils as a screwdriver, albeit unsuccessfully. He moved back into the bathroom and stripped down for his shower, sighing with relief when hot water chased away the chill that had settled on his skin.

In the other room, Berwald, confident that Tino was occupied with his shower, stoically began beating the AC with the Bible from the drawer of the nightstand.

At least this way he could say he'd tried everything.

* * *

The AC had been pronounced terminally screwed, as nothing could be done to keep the thing from happily spewing frosty air into the room, despite any and _all_ attempts to adjust, beat, or cajole it. Berwald had grabbed a shower while Tino had tried to towel-dry his hair to the best of his ability, and now, well...

Now, with nothing else to do but sleep, they stood awkwardly before the bed, the dilemma of sleeping arrangements associated with a single bed, two guy situation stretching the air with tension. Finally, Tino, hair damp and teeth chattering, gave in and flopped on the bed, dragging some of the covers over himself but leaving plenty for Berwald. The Swede raised an eyebrow.

"This is ridiculous," the Finn mumbled through the coverlet, refusing to look at the other man or admit how flustered he was by such a clichéd situation. "Just take the other half. This doesn't have to be an issue."

Finding that to be completely reasonable, Berwald took off his glasses and set them on the nightstand before climbing into his side of the bed. Tino — not rolling over, as he was determined to respect the man's personal space — couldn't help but notice how chilled his front felt with the Swede at his back, as Berwald seemed to have some pretty amazing body heat, and the difference in temperatures on either side of his body just served to make the coldness on his face and hands seem more intense. He bit his lip, and was about to subtly pretend that he'd rolled over in his sleep as an excuse to absorb a little of Berwald's warmth when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"What?" he asked, rolling a bit so he could look at the other man and immediately regretting it, as the little illumination provided by the streetlight glare leaking in through the blinds only served to intensify Berwald's expression, which was plenty scary on its own. He was frowning.

"Y're shiver'ng," was all he said, but from the tone of his voice that could have been a capital offense. Tino muffled a scared squeak and nodded, wondering what the other man was thinking, and hoping it didn't involve wrenches.

Without another word, Berwald lifted the area of comforter between them, revealing a warm space in the circle of his arms that Tino could easily fit into. While puzzled at first, the Finnish man quickly caught on, and, throwing his pride to the wind, he snuggled into the warm space, sighing as the half-frozen tips of his ears began to thaw. Berwald smelled amusingly like wood shavings, but the scent of pine and birch wasn't exactly off-putting.

Warm, exhausted, and surrounded by the pleasant scent of carpentry – if such a thing existed – Tino felt the weight of the day settle on his eyelids, and was, within a few moments, fast asleep.

Berwald stayed up a little longer, thinking. It was in his nature to plan, and, if there had ever been a time when serious planning was necessary, that time was now.

Things would be alright. He'd promised that they would be, and he'd keep his word.

* * *

**A/N: **D'aww. I loved writing that. And Norway harassing Denmark. I hated that they had to take on a negative role in this, but it was all for the plot. I still love them. :D

Also, following the theme of the last chapter, I'm trying to work in more cameo appearances. Ah, Poland, I love you and all your saucy innuendo.

Anyway, thanks for reading all the way to the end again! Reviews are love!

- C


	7. Getting a Move On

**A/N: **Whoo! Over 100 reviews! /dances

Thank you guys soooooo much! I really appreciate all the feedback you give me, and I'm glad you're enjoying the story. Also, a special shoutout goes to the people who actually did the pre-reading exercise I outlined in the last chapter, at the risk of life and limb. You guys are awesome! XD

Anyway, I'm glad to get some positive feedback on the references to canon last chapter. I believe it enriches the story to touch on scenes from the actual manga, but I'm not going to do it very often. I just felt that the cuddling scene was too cute to pass up.

I know there was a long wait on this chapter, and, I'm sad to say, there'll probably be a long wait on the next chapter as well. I'm going to be moving next month, and I probably won't get ANY opportunities to write for awhile. I will get back to it the moment that's over, however. As I've stated on my FF profile, I have this story plotted all the way to the end, so you don't have to worry about me giving it up at any point. I may be slow, but this fic _will_ be finished-no matter what! On with the chapter.

**If you'd like to exercise again before this equally long chapter, I recommend the following songs:** "Baby Come Back" by _Player_, "Hungry Like the Wolf" by _Duran Duran_, and "Highway to the Danger Zone" by _Kenny Loggins._ Yes, I know I'm a nerd.

**Warnings:** Cursing, Poland, more cursing, and MOTHER RUSSIA (/kolkolkol).

* * *

As Tino drifted up out of sleep, the first thing he registered was that he was surrounded by warmth. He couldn't feel the chill of the broken AC, his toes were toasty, and he was — overall — as _not _cold as one could be.

He also couldn't breathe.

"Ack— Ber— arrgh!" he gasped, struggling under the weight of Berwald, who'd half rolled on top of him at some point in the night and was the main reason he couldn't draw a full breath. Despite the noise the Finn was making as he struggled to free himself, the much taller man didn't show any sign of waking up, and actually rolled a little farther onto Tino in his sleep, cutting off his air supply even more. He flailed, but Berwald was a solid weight on his chest, depressing his lungs.

At this point, survival instinct took over.

Before he'd fully thought through what he was doing, Tino had braced his arms against the Swede's chest and pushed with all his might.

Which was quite a lot, all things considered.

"OHYAAAAAAAAH!"

Tino shoved Berwald all the way off of him and finally managed to suck in a breath of cool air, gasping as his lungs were allowed to expand to full capacity. Unfortunately, he'd underestimated two things — his strength and the size of the hotel bed. The taller man went right over the side and landed with what sounded like a painful thud on the carpeted floor. Tino blinked at the space where the Swede had been for a few seconds, as if wondering what had happened. Then—

"OhmyGodBerwald."

He hurriedly crawled to the edge of the bed and peeked over, fully expecting to find Berwald dying of a fatal head injury in a sprawled heap. Instead, he found the man still sleeping like a rock, oblivious to the fact that he'd just been unceremoniously dumped on the carpet by a man roughly a foot shorter than him. Tino had to fight not to burst out laughing.

He also had to fight not to shriek as the sheet he'd been perched on slipped out from under him and sent him tumbling over the side of the bed too, smacking his leg on the heating/cooling unit in the process.

Berwald awoke to a moaning Tino sprawled on top of him, looking embarrassed and disheveled with his hair all mussed up and cheeks still flushed from being trapped underneath him.

Berwald pinched himself, and was mildly surprised when he didn't wake up in his old apartment, having dreamt the whole thing.

Fortunately for him, Tino didn't notice in his rush to stammer out apologies the moment he saw the Swede's eyes open. He clambered off the taller man as fast as he could, and ended but jostling the leg he'd banged on the heated, which hurt like _hell._

"Owwwww…" Tino hissed, clutching his rapidly bruising shin. "I'm so sorry, Berwald. Are you okay?"

"'M fine," he replied, sitting up and looking around, apparently uninjured. "Why're we on th'floor?"

"Long story short? I almost died. This is definitely not going to work another night."

Berwald nodded and stood up, helping Tino to his feet a moment afterward. The Finn hissed as he put weight on his left leg, the injured one, and Berwald knelt to get a good look at the deep purple bruises blossoming over the man's shin. He touched it gingerly, but pulled his hand away when Tino moaned, obviously in pain.

"S'not broken," he concluded upon standing again. "But y'll have a nasty l'mp for awh'le."

"Great," the shorter of the two grumbled, limping over to one of the chairs set up around the hotel room's tiny dining room table to rest his leg. "This'll definitely make looking for apartments easier."

Tino's statement obvious jogged Berwald's memory somehow, as he immediately stood and went hunting for his cell phone and glasses, which were still in the pocket of his jacket, which was hung over the back of a chair.

"I've got t'make a few calls…" he explained before trailing off, obviously thinking about something very deeply but not feeling inclined to share. He dialed in a number and as he waited through the ringing signaled for Tino to get dressed and ready to go. The Finn put some instant coffee on in the little pot provided by the hotel (which was about as luxurious as the place got) before he sidled into the bathroom, hoping some hot water would help with the pain in his leg.

* * *

"So, what's up?" Tino asked, feeling up to starting a conversation after being suitably warmed by the coffee he'd made. Berwald had run out to the local library while he'd been wrangling their continental breakfast out of the Polish hotel manager, and was drinking his coffee as if his life depended on it. Apparently, visiting the library in the morning was a dangerous affair. He'd come back burdened with real estate mags and print outs, and had spent the better part of the last thirty minutes sorting through them, reading with an intensity that put Tino on edge. He was obviously very serious about finding himself a place to live, while Tino could barely muster the will to get up and get a second cup of coffee. Tino didn't want to end up homeless, but it was also very early in the morning…

He yawned and sloshed the dregs of his coffee back and forth inside the cheap paper cup. He'd get to work after he'd brewed another pot. He looked up from the remains of his caffeine hit to get the attention of the man sitting directly opposite him, who seemed too lost in thought to have heard his earlier question.

"Berwald?"

The Swede jumped a bit, his train of thought jogged off the tracks. He took his glasses off briefly and rubbed his eyes before handing Tino a printout, obviously suffering from the adverse effects of having to real estate adds that started off with, "…well, the foundation's made of cardboard boxes, but…". Tino scanned the text of the paper for a moment, but his eyes mostly lingered on the included property photos, which didn't just showcase the handsome craftsman style house, but also the spacious yard and wrap around porch.

"'S a little old, but it's w'll built," Berwald began, before he tapped his index finger against the top of the page to indicate the asking price, "With m'savings, I could prob'bly get it."

"Nice," Tino said, running over the description of the three bedroom, three bath house. "I guess it's good to get a jump on things. I better start looking too… any other good listings?"

The Finnish man moved to start going through the assorted real estate catalogs, but upon feeling Berwald's eyes boring into his head, he looked up at the other man questioningly.

"What?"

"W'll, it's your own choice, b't…" the Swede said. "I figur'd it'd be cheap'r just t'share a place. S'why I pick'd out this one."

Tino went blank — a thing he'd been getting quite good at recently — before he fully registered what the other man meant.

"Oh! Of course! I was wondering why you needed three bedrooms…"

Berwald just nodded and sorted all of the real estate papers into a pile, throwing out a few that were complete rejects, but making it clear that the choice was Tino's as he pushed the stack towards him. The Finnish man hadn't even really considered sharing a place—let alone with Berwald—but he also hadn't recently put aside enough money to try to find another flat as close to the college campus as he would need it to be. There were lots of other students vying for the same property, so the landlords in the area had no scruples about charging obscene prices, even for tiny studio apartments. So, actually, a room share…

"If y'don't mind, that is," the taller of the two insisted. "It'd be cheap'r for both of us…"

Plus, cooed the little psychologist-y side of his mind, it was the perfect chance to analyze Berwald without having to stalk him again. Not that he had before. Or anything. Ahem.

"Well, that might work…" Tino said thoughtfully. "After all, it's not like you'll be up at odd hours blasting Danish techno while I'm trying to work on a paper…"

Berwald was inwardly very confused by the goodwill he'd earned himself due to his obvious disdain for all things Danish, but he kept his usual intimidating expression on, something Tino found himself not terribly bothered by at the moment. He thought for a bit and looked down at the pictures of the house again. This would quite possibly be the nicest place he'd ever live. But then again… He glanced back up at Berwald, who looked more like he was menacing his cell phone than dialing the seller's number.

If he wanted it, he'd have to get to the real estate agent first, or risk having them run screaming for the hills when Berwald got a little critical of the crown molding.

Not for the first time in his life, Tino was glad he was short and nonthreatening.

* * *

"Ve, Berwald, I had no idea you were moving! I would have told you about this sooner!"

Feliciano, in high spirits despite the fact that at eleven o' clock the sun was already beating down strong, laughed and chirped and generally appeared to be enjoying life as he stood on the front porch of the handsome craftsman style house, dressed warmly with regard to the chilly weather. Berwald had frozen on the front walk, leaving a confused Tino to amble all the way up to the door and greet their next possible landlord alone.

"Ve, you're the waiter from the other night," Feliciano pointed out, his easy grasp of the obvious charming a chuckle out of Tino. "I'll be your landlord, Feliciano Vargas, but you can just call me Feli—everyone does. Heh, sorry I brought pasta the other night, I know that in a restaurant you're not supposed to bring outside food but I promised Berwald and Ludwig also likes my pasta, and Toni never says anything so I figure it would be okay. Do you like pasta? I could make you some pasta! My favorite is — "

And he went on. While the Finnish man was almost blown away by the Italian's near-constant chatter after his time with the concise Berwald, he immediately warmed to him—after all, you can only go without small talk for so long before you lose all semblance of humanity and take up computer solitaire.

"Hi," he greeted, getting a little bright and sunny himself. "I'm Tino Väinä…mö... he's staring at us, isn't he?"

"Yup!" the Italian replied, completely unaffected by the dumbstruck look Berwald was giving them. "Veee… he looks like he's in shock. I bet he's like Ludwig… doesn't trust me with real estate… or houses… or money… or _keys_…"

Feliciano fell into a pout about not being trusted as far as he could be thrown and Berwald finally continued up the walkway, obviously back to normal, as his eyes ran over the exterior woodwork on the house as if he was mentally constructing and reconstructing each piece.

"Didn't kn'w y'were in real est'te, Fel'ciano," he mumbled, trying to smooth over his earlier shock and cheer up the man. Fortunately for him, Feli bounced right back into his happy mood and began rummaging around in his coat pockets for the house keys.

"My grandpa left me a lot of land and art and stuff, but I don't really have much use for all the houses," he explained, finally finding the set that opened the solid oak front door. "I actually inherited… most of this neighborhood, if I remember right. Ve, I'm hoping to sell them all!"

He just smiled as both Tino and Berwald gaped at him—well, Berwald didn't so much _gape_ as have his eyes open a little wider in alarm… or something—and then down the street at all the other houses he owned.

"I finally got it open! Let's go in!"

The Italian disappeared inside, and with one last, shared glance, the two men followed.

* * *

The place had a foyer.

Tino could practically _taste_ the swank.

"This is the foyer, and that's the hallway to the dining room, and those are the stairs to the second story, and that's an empty room, and here's a closet, and there's the first bathroom, and…"

Feliciano went on, and Berwald felt the value of the place rising before his eyes. The asking price Feliciano had listed in the ad must have been a joke or a typing error—he probably left off a few zeroes. The cheerful Italian guided both the dumbstruck Swede and the enchanted Tino through the airy kitchen, spacious living areas, and various hallways before he finally led them out onto the back porch overlooking the yard.

"So that's the house," Feli said with a warm smile. "What do you think?"

"I love it," Tino replied, "but…"

Feliciano gave him a questioning look, and Berwald finished for him.

"…but the r'nt might not be n'our pr'ce range."

The Italian just laughed and waved his hand.

"Ve, I'm not renting, I'm selling! I can't afford to maintain so many empty houses anymore!"

The Swede's face fell even further, and Tino looked at the ground disheartened.

"M'sorry, but we j'st can't aff'rd a hundred an' seventy thousand…" he grumbled, more aggravated at himself for settling on a place so quickly than at the Italian. Feliciano looked shocked.

"Ve! Who said a _hundred and seventy_ thousand? I listed it at seventeen!" he cried, looking panicked. "It's instant equity!"

"But it's such a nice house," Tino protested. "How could you be selling it for so little? Is it built on a sink hole? Haunted by the ghosts of dead children? _Plagued by black mold?"_

"No!" the Italian insisted, waving his hands frantically. "But the location is still bad, possibly worse than that! Ve, you see, I don't own the house next door and… well…"

Feliciano didn't need to say anything else. The back door opened on the next house over, and a wall of a man stepped out. He had pale, almost silver blond hair and a long scarf that waved in mock cheerfulness when the wind blew it. His eyes were a cold shade of violet that could only be compared to Tino's if the Finn died of sudden cardiac arrest. There was something of a creepy aura around him, as if he'd only stepped out of the house to make sure no one was digging up any of the bodies he'd planted in the backyard.

As most students who attended the university would, Tino and Berwald recognized him instantly.

_Braginski, Ivan. Age 24.  
Clinically insane._

Also the head of his class in astrophysics. Go figure.

"Good afternoon, Comrade Feliciano," the Russian greeted, waving merrily. "Showing the house again?"

"Y-yes, I am," the Italian managed, hiding behind Berwald's broad back shamelessly. "How are you doing, I-Ivan?"

The big man just smiled.

"_Не беспокойтесь об этом!"_

With a 'waaaaah' sound, Feliciano slid further away from the Russian, visibly shaking, which only seemed to bolster Ivan's good mood. Berwald had bristled the moment the big man had made his appearance, leaving Tino the only one not having some kind of violent reaction to Ivan's presence. His reaction was going on internally.

Inside the little Finn, the psychology obsessed part of his mind had donned a choir boy costume and had begun singing 'Hallelujah'.

"V-ve, that's why I had to lower the price of the place," Feliciano whispered to Berwald and Tino. "He scares everyone away! Houses where triple homicides happened have sold faster!"

"I'll go talk to him," Tino offered, a confident smile on his face. "I'm sure we can work something out!"

Berwald and Feli visibly paled.

"Nonononono, that's not a good idea—_egli mangerà voi!"_

"T'no, he's prob'bly dang'rous — don't go."

But the blond had already set off across the yard to their shared fence and leaned over, beckoning the Russian man closer. Ivan cheerily joined him and struck up a conversation, looming over Tino as if he was eyeing something particularly tasty on a cutting board. Berwald felt like icy hands were squeezing his lungs, and somehow that old Cold War era saying "everyone will become one with Mother Russia" came to mind. He was about to walk right over and initiate some counter-menacing maneuvers when Ivan shrieked and began backing away from the fence. A confused Tino waved him back, but the man ran away like a child, crying something that vaguely sounded like 'nyet' as he fled back to his house, beige scarf trailing in his wake.

Tino blinked and shook his head, then walked back over to where his perspective roommate and landlord stood, looking absolutely clueless.

"What did y'_do_?" Berwald had to ask, completely stunned. Tino just frowned.

"I don't know, we just got to talking about this and that, but when I asserted that his problems with his younger sister might be resolved with joint thera…" he trailed off, suddenly looking embarrassed. "Oh, whoops. Guess I got a little… psychologist-y there…"

Tino smiled and scratched the back of his head nervously, as if he'd done something wrong. Feliciano rushed forward and clasped his hands, sobbing openly.

"Oh grazie, grazie, _grazie_!" he cried. "I'll sell you the house for twelve thousand!"

* * *

"I kinda feel like we robbed him…"

"Don't worry, th'feeling'll pass."

Berwald and Tino were coasting down the street on the former's motorbike, which the Finn found much less scary now that it wasn't doing highway speeds down a one way street _in the wrong direction. _The moment Feliciano had proposed an asking price of twelve thousand, Berwald had jumped on it, knowing that it was the best deal they were likely to get anywhere, and that the Italian wasn't going to find anyone else who'd be willing to live next door to Braginski. Like Tino, the Swedish man was feeling some guilt over taking the house off Feli's hands for so cheap, but his conscience was telling him that those feelings would quickly go away when he began showering Feliciano with free furniture. After all, he'd need some _new_ things to go in the _new_ house he was sharing with his _new_ boyfriend, Ludwig. Apparently they'd become "official" yesterday afternoon, around the time Berwald had been putting chairs through windows and generally pissing off certain Danish landlords.

Speaking of which…

Berwald rolled to a stop at the curb as Denmark came down the stairs outside his apartment, carrying a crate full of his stuff which he promptly dumped on the lawn. Norway sat in the shade under the steps, complacently writing out price labels and making Garage Sale signs as he nursed a tall mug of tea. Everything Berwald owned was currently sitting outside on the half-frosted grass, right down to a box of assorted wood carvings he'd made when he was going through a depressed, artistic phase around sixteen. He might actually give those to Norway to sell, if only so he'd never have to see them again.

"What are you _doing_?" Tino cried, having to lean around the taller man in front of him to get a good look at the eviction festivities. Denmark stood from setting another box on the curb and stretched, grinning like he was at an amusement park, not hauling a former tenant's crap out on the lawn.

"Having the time of my life!" he said, bounding back up the stairs for another box before stopping to give the Swede a hard look. "What are _you_ doing? Bertrude, I mean."

"'M back for m'stuff," Berwald replied, not even bothering to correct Denmark's "accidental" failure at remembering his name. He dismounted the bike with no fanfare and straightened his navy blue coat, the lines of which made him seem even taller than he actually was. Denmark, back down the stairs and obviously feeling that his manly pride was threatened, tried to be sneaky and stand on his toes, but even then he was still a good half inch shy of Berwald. Tino probably would've noticed this little contest and stifled a laugh if he hadn't currently been working on being extremely confused and more than a little angry. This weekend and the accompanying Friday seemed dead set on driving him up the wall, or at least making him use up his full allowance of righteous fury for this lifetime.

"Where's _my_ stuff?" he asked, snapping his attention to Denmark with such ferocity that the man actually stepped back a bit. The landlord seemed seriously confused.

"Well, this is your first time, y'know, doin' anything bad, so I didn't evict you or anything," he replied. "I mean, I could give you a warning, but it's not like I'm gonna _dump_ your stuff out here."

"But you'll dump _Berwald's_ stuff?"

"I don't know if I mentioned this yesterday," the Dane said, "but I hate him."

Berwald just shrugged in acceptance and grabbed something out of a box near his foot. He crouched and popped it into place somewhere on his motorbike, leaving Tino to pale at the idea that they'd been driving around on something that wasn't actually _in one piece_. He quickly returned to his original train of thought, however.

"Your _astounding_ reasoning—that points to a severe need for civil communication between you and Berwald in a group therapy setting—aside, I'm leaving."

Denmark was positively stunned.

"But you're breaking lease—and you just don't do that!"

"I do now," Tino shot back before making his way up the stairs and into his old apartment. The Dane stared after him, shocked, before turning to give Berwald an accusatory glare.

"Don't look at me," Berwald said raising his hands in self-defense. "Tha's all 'im."

He paused for a moment in fiddling with his bike and the corners of his mouth turned up a bit.

"Can't say m'not pleas'd, tho'."

He dodged a wedge of garage sale stickers Denmark had stolen from Norway with the express intent of tossing at his head. Just as he was about to pick up one of his atrocious wood carvings to fire back, the honking of a loud air horn behind him caught his attention.

"Heeeeeey! Berwaaald! Feli told me you were a homeless bum!"

He turned to find Gilbert leaning out of the window of Vash's extremely beefy all terrain battle machine—a polished hummer he babied like his own flesh and blood—waving his arms and generally causing a racket. Packed into the back seats were other members of the gang, all of which seemed to find Denmark's goldfish gape at their appearance endlessly amusing. Vash managed to bring the behemoth to a stop just short of Berwald's motorbike, and everyone immediately piled out, surrounding the Swede almost like a real (not constantly drunk and/or bored) gang.

"'M not a bum," he insisted, "an' m'not homel'ss eith'r."

As if on cue, Tino came back down the stairs carrying a bag of his essentials. "Alright, I've got what I need for one night at the house, I'll have to call movers for the…"

He trailed off mid-thought as he took in the sight of 'the gang' looking practically militaristic, all circled around tall Berwald in his dark coat and Vash's beast-car.

"Wait, let me get this straight…" Sadiq, who'd been crammed into the front seat between Vash and Gilbo, said, glancing back and forth between his comrade and the tiny Finn. "You're moving in with the _waiter_?"

"It's _l'amour_!" cried Francis, who'd swung himself out of the back of the SUV. "It cannot be denied!"

"Get back in the fucking truck, Francis—!"

"It's not a _truck_, it's a paramilitary, all-terrain—"

"Shut up, you friggin' Swiss bastard, nobody cares!"

"I care, big brother!"

"What the — you brought your little sister?"

"Of course," the young girl, who also managed — somehow — to daintily unfold herself out of the SUV, replied. "I'm here to help everyone clean. We are here to help Mr. Oxenstierna move, right?"

Everyone just shared a blank look.

"Oh, yeah, right…"

"While we're at it, we must certainly help out our poor little waiter as well!" Francis insisted, having finally forced his way back out on the street and immediately taken a stricken Tino into his arms. "We simply can't leave such a sweet thing to his own devices, what with all the heavy lifting he'll probably have to do!"

Before the Finn could protest — or even ask at what point he had become _their, _apparently shared, waiter — he found himself being vigorously patted on the head and slapped on the back, taken into the fold of the gang as if he'd belonged there all along.

"Yeah, why not?" Gilbert agreed. "After all, West probably has a beer gut to work off. We'll call him an' Toni back at the bar — make 'em bring Toni's tomato truck, since we're _definitely_ gonna need it."

Everyone rushed towards the apartment complex to grab stuff and start loading it into the SUV, leaving Tino and Berwald standing on the curb. The Finn threw his hands in the air and let out a frustrated yell.

"I can manage myself!" he insisted, aggravated when his protests fell on deaf ears — deaf ears that were currently attached to owners having way too much fun terrorizing Denmark and Norway as they cleared out the lawn and packed its contents into Vash's baby. Berwald didn't pat him on the head, but instead laid a big hand on his shoulder, obviously tuned into Tino's acute feeling of uselessness.

"S'alright," he said. "They're just tryin' t'help."

"Yeah, I guess… wait, did that one guy just drop a mattress on Denmark?"

"Oh m'God… LOVINO!"

Berwald charged into the fray that was more mortal combat between their former landlords and the gang than moving—at the moment, and Tino parked himself on the expansive bumper of Vash's SUV. He pulled out his little black book and began to write.

_Sunday_

_For better or worse, I'm moving in with the patient. I guess that old saying is true — sometimes a problem is just an opportunity in disguise. …somehow, that still sounds corny, even in the right context. It's definitely a good change of scene (quieter), and a good opportunity to observe him up close… though hopefully not as close as this morning! Aggh! _

_ As a side note, is Denmark being pummeled with MY pillows…? Oh geez…_

Tino shoved his pen behind his ear, then retraced Berwald's footsteps into the battle, yelling something about group therapy and 'talking it out'.

* * *

**OMAKE**

* * *

"So, like, did you two _enjoy_ your stay?"

The Polish hotel manager—not the receptionist, as he'd previously appeared to be—and full time transvestite leaned over the counter in the office, smirking at Berwald and Tino as they approached to check out and pay their bill. Berwald immediately looked irritated—it was as if the cross dressing man had a physical _disability _that made it impossible for him to speak without his tone dripping innuendo.

"There was a probl'm with th'air condition'r," the Swedish man began, but was cut off as Tino sidled up to the counter next to him and waved his hands dismissively, as he was wont to do.

"Everything was fine; it was just fine! We'll just be getting out of your way here…"

Tino tugged on Berwald's sleeve as if to say, 'not now, hurry up', and the man complied, paying and accepting his receipt without further complaint. All would have gone well, as they began to leave, if the Polish man at their back hadn't picked up on one particular thing.

"Honey," he called out to Tino. "Are you _limping_?"

The way he said it made Tino feel like it was something to be embarrassed about.

"Yes, little accident…" he explained, trying _not_ to cower from the sharpness of the look that was probably on Berwald's face, even though the expression wouldn't be directed towards him. "Nothing to worry about…"

"_Suuuure_…" the man agreed, seemingly ready to drop the subject. Just as they started to step out the door, and Tino thought they were home free, the Polish man piped up again.

"Mr. Oxenstierna?"

Berwald turned back from where he'd started to stalk out the door, annoyance barely held in check.

"Hmn?"

"It's called_ lube_," the motel manager purred, "use some next time."

There was a pause, like the calm before a storm, and then the Swede strode back to the counter, and gripped the underside.

"Wait, no, Berwald—!"

Then came a crash, a shriek, the sound of very nice high heels skittering across the linoleum floor — and suddenly their bill was an extra hundred dollars.

Tino paid it with no remorse.

* * *

**A/N:** I'M SORRY. I HAD TO. I LOVE TO WRITE SAUCY!POLAND. Plus, I'm pretty sure this is his last appearance. /sad

I'm trying to fit in even more cameos, thus the Lichtenstein and Russia! Although, Russia will appear more later. :D By the way, the whole Finland owning Russia bit was based off of this: http:(slash)(slash)i42(dot)tinypic(dot)com(slash)11rzl6w(dot)jpg . The little guy's tougher than he looks!

By the way, I don't speak Russian or Italian, so if you have edits to offer on my usage of those languages, I'd really appreciate it. Oh, by the way, Russia was supposed to have said, "Don't worry about it!" and Italy, "He'll eat you!".

Not much more to say-I pretty much covered everything in my first note. THANK YOU AGAIN FOR ALL THE REVIEWS. LOVE Y'ALL.

Thanks for reading all the way to the end!

- C


	8. Those Expected Confrontations

**A/N:** BAH-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NAAAAH UPPPPPPDATE! UPPPPPPPDATE! (/has the Batman theme stuck in her head)

Somehow school—and not the move—has been the major cause for this chapter being pretty late. It helps that I've been procrastinating on packing by claiming to be doing English homework while I'm secretly writing this (yes, I'm not only _going_ to Hell, I'm driving the bus. All aboard?). Also, the fact that every time I write a new chapter it gets _even longer_ than the last one _might_ have something to do with this...

But, I digress.

Into pure joy.

Over _ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY REVIEWS?_ HOLY CRAP GUYS, IT'S GROUP HUG TIME. You make me so happy in my heart. /love

Partly in thanks, and partly because I've gotten used to writing omakes, there's one at the end of this chapter. Enjoy.

**EXERCISE TIME, EH, COMRADE?** Let's go for "Walking On Broken Glass" by Annie Lennox, "Waterloo" by ABBA, and that all-time classic, "Eye of the Tiger" by Survivor.

**WARNING(S):** Carpentry tools, Finland's cooking, and pants with too much time on their hands.

_

* * *

_

_Tuesday_

_We're both making progress unpacking and moving in. It's odd, knowing that I'm living with someone I hadn't _truly_ met until two weeks ago, but, somehow, I'm not too weirded out. The patient is a good person, if not a little intimidating. I'm very glad to know he's not actually in a gang, though I'm still clueless when it comes to why he's so utterly withdrawn. Hopefully, being in such close quarters, I'll be able to get to know Berwald better. Without stalking him. Not that I have before. On an unrelated note, he sure packed some strange stuff…_

"Hey, Berwald, does this go in the kitchen? Berwald?"

Tino stepped away from the boxes in the dining room he'd been unpacking, looking for his roommate, who was nowhere to be found. Hearing the sound of a circular saw at work in the distance, probably in the garage, the Finn assumed Berwald was once again slaving away over his latest piece of furniture. Two weeks had passed since they'd been shipped out of Denmark's apartment complex in Vash's battle wagon, and the Swede had spent about ninety percent of that time in his newly set up workshop, fashioning extremely nice furniture for very appreciative people, who were apparently on a friggin' _waiting_ _list_.

He hadn't even obtained journeyman status, yet he already had a following of loyal customers.

Loyal customers with _deep pockets_.

Tino felt silly now, looking back on how much he'd fussed over Berwald buying their house with his savings.

He'd fussed a lot.

Like, "I'm going to take out fifteen different loans so that I can _at least_ pay for half now, and repay you for the rest later" kinda fussed.

Much to his chagrin, the man's funds had been built back up within days. Never before had he felt so much like a broke college student as when Berwald had written a check—on the spot—for twelve thousand dollars, and handed it over to Feliciano without a second thought.

But now, regardless, Tino was living in this _amazing _house, and was carrying the _amazing _device he'd unpacked — which looked like the unholy love child of a can opener and a pair of spurs — out to the garage, to consult the tool guru currently at work.

Yes, _garage_. They now had their own. It could hold two cars.

Tino felt like a hobo squatting in some prince's mansion, and that feeling didn't look to be leaving _anytime_ soon.

The sounds of sawing had died off, but the soft whisper of sandpaper on wood had started up shortly afterward, only audible to the Finn when he pressed an ear to the door. He knocked politely, before hearing a sound he'd come to recognize as Berwald's extremely eloquent way of saying 'come on in' when he had a mouth full of nails. Or any time, actually.

"Sorry to bother you," Tino greeted, opening the door and holding up the strange device he'd unpacked, "but does this go in the kitchen?"

Berwald stood, shook his head, and dusted his hands off on his dark jeans.

"No, it's a revolvin' punch," he explained, taking it from the Finn's much smaller hands. Tino's face was one big question mark, so he picked up a piece of linoleum and promptly put three holes in it, each in quick succession.

"S'for punchin' holes' n'leather'n'stuff. Been lookin' for it," he finished, setting the tool down on his work bench and handing Tino the lino for his inspection. The psych major held one of the holes up to his eye, peered through the neatly cut circle, and made a ridiculous face, like the gray square was some kind of mask and Berwald wouldn't see him through it. He laughed at his own amazing degree of maturity, then returned the linoleum to his roommate, who'd turned away quickly to hide the hint of a smile on his face. There was a lull for a moment as Tino surveyed Berwald's workshop, which was tidy, as usual, but also full of random wooden parts he couldn't visualize being put together to _make_ anything.

"What're you working on?" he asked, eyeing the disassembled pieces of furniture laid out on Berwald's work table. He still couldn't tell what they were supposed to be, but that wasn't exactly _unusual._ Berwald's vision, when furniture was involved, was deliberate, but only clear when it all came together. Though why he _named_ the stuff was still a mystery to the young psych major…

"This," the Swede replied, gesturing to a corner Tino hadn't really been focused on. Assembled there was a tall bookcase, completely sanded and assembled, but not yet stained. He'd laid out the finish and a brush, but had obviously been taking a break when Tino had wandered in with the puncher-thing.

"Oh, already on the staining, huh?"

"Mmh," Berwald mumbled, prying the lid off the can before looking back at Tino, who was visibly antsy. "D'you wanna help?"

"Can I?" the Finn asked, slightly excited. He'd seen Berwald at work before, but had never quite worked up the courage—especially when the man was focused on his work, with that terrifying expression—to try his hand at what looked like a really precise trade. Staining, though—this couldn't be that much harder than the time he'd painted bird houses at summer camp, right?

Wrong.

"No, y've got t'keep y'r hand steady," Berwald instructed, laying his hand over Tino's to guide the staining brush. "Sure str'kes. _Smooth_."

"O-okay," Tino mumbled, starting to lay on stain boldly, if only so that Berwald would step back and stop _helping_ him. He was _awfully _close, and the proximity made the Finn a little shaky. Only because of how scary he was up close, of course. _Only_ because of that. As a side note, his hands were really warm…

"Y've got that down, then," Berwald decided abruptly, moving away to collect another brush and dip it in the stain. "I'll start n'this s'de."

After that they worked in silence for awhile, before Tino felt the need to start some small talk, as he often did around the more terse man. Wiping his brow, he asked the first thing that came to mind.

"So, you like carpentry?"

Wow. And they say there's no such thing as stupid questions.

"Mmh," Berwald agreed, smoothing rich stain over his side of the bookcase, which, the Finn noted belatedly, was much larger than his.

Trust. _Suuuure._

Tino scrambled to cover his lame conversation starter as he dipped his brush again.

"Well, that's good. The impression I got from most of the other guys doing vocational work was that it was a family thing. They were kinda forced into it by their dads, or whatever."

Berwald paused for a moment, a slight frown on his face, as if he were recalling something strange.

"M'dad want'd me t'be a dancer."

Tino had to force himself not to burst into laughter. As it was, he nearly choked.

"_Really?"_

"Yeah," the Swede said, already finished with the side he'd been working on and starting on another. "S'not really pract'cal, tho'. As a profess'n."

"Well, if you make it big… but anyway, you turned to carpentry?" Tino asked, only halfway done. Berwald just shrugged.

"Like t'make stuff tha's usef'l, y'know?"

"Yeah, I get that…" the Finn agreed, thinking about why he'd wanted to become a therapist. Other than the good money, he'd wanted to help people, and Berwald wanted to make things that people could get good use out of. Somehow, he felt they had more in common than he'd previously thought.

"'Sides which," Berwald added, "don't particul'rly like t'ghts."

This time Tino didn't stop himself from laughing, and Berwald didn't turn away when he felt a smile tugging at his lips. He laid down the last stroke of stain, and they both stood, the Finn admiring his handiwork and ignoring the fact that Berwald had done two sides in the time it had taken him to do one, a hundred times better. He had an unfair advantage, Tino decided.

"Ready for dinner?" he asked Berwald after a while, remembering the dish he'd put on the stove to warm when he first went off in pursuit of the misplaced Swede. The man nodded and opened the door of the garage, only remembering to ask what they were having a few moments later.

"Oh, my speciality!" Tino replied, pumping a fist in the air as they stepped into the house through the side door. Berwald, who, over the two weeks they had been living together, had sampled a few of the smaller man's "specialties", paled.

"What's it call'd?" he ventured. Tino looked up at him with a broad smile.

"'_Enter the Fiery Pit of Despair: Burning Curry from Hell!'_"

"Ah."

* * *

"Hmmmm… I don't see why Berwald only had two servings. This is possibly the best batch I've ever made."

It was lunch the next day, which found Tino parked at a picnic table outside with Elizabeta, who was warily keeping an eye on the Tupperware container the Finn was eating leftovers out of, lest it be incinerated by its contents and cause them to splatter all over her. Spontaneous combustion wasn't exactly the death she was hoping for.

"So," she purred, more to distract herself than anything else, "you're _cooking _for him?"

"Yup," Tino replied, lapping a little of the terrifyingly red curry off his spoon. "I packed him some for lunch, too."

Elizabeta smirked and waggled her eyebrows. Tino blinked, and then registered what she meant and pressed his forehead against the wood of the picnic table with an embarrassed groan.

"Eliza, when are you going to stop implying that there's more to it than what's on the surface?" he mumbled, scraping the last of his curry out of the Tupperware with a massive blush. "Seriously, we _both_ help with the cooking."

"But who wears the apron?"

"_Elizabeta."_

"Alright, alright,_ jeez_," she relented, taking a sip of the pink lemonade she'd bought earlier and raising her hands in mock surrender. "You act like 'the gay' isn't out there, waiting to sweep you off your tiny feet in the form of one _very fine_ Swedish carpenter, but I've got a _feeling_, and you know I'm _never_ wrong."

"Mhmm, sure, and what about your '_feeling' _when it came to your patient, Roderich?" Tino parried, trying to get her away from the subject of him and Berwald being anything more than housemates—as well as the slightly disturbing mental image off him being swept into the arms of Berwald in full 'Bob the Builder' regalia. Rather than kill Elizabeta's boys-love-inspired joy, his question only brought an even more pleased smirk to her face.

"Oh, now _there's_ a story to tell," she said. "Because of course, as you know, I've been… observing… Roderich so carefully he has no idea when I'm around and when I'm not, it was only inevitable that my _feeling_ would prove—as always—to be accurate."

"So, what?" Tino grumbled, the feeling of discomfort that had joined him at the beginning of their conversation growing exponentially. "He gave a friend a pat on the back?"

"More like he was pushed into the back of Vash Zwingli's baby-tank and _ravished_."

There was a pause as a plastic spoon was nearly choked upon, and a certain Hungarian laughed triumphantly.

"Oh my _God…"_ Tino murmured, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes like he wanted to push them as far into the back of his head as he could, where they might be safe from the imagery. Elizabeta finished off her drink and chucked the empty bottle directly into a trash from ten feet away, earning her an appreciative cheer from a group of guys at a nearby table.

"C'mon, Tino, you know you're only moaning because that means that my _feelings_ are up to _one hundred percent_ _accuracy_," she pointed out, gathering some materials for their next class she wanted to go over. "What would you prefer—that I was a rampant homophobe who would deny you even the _opportunity_ to explore a possible _thing _with Berwald?"

"I don't _want_ to explore that possibility!" Tino protested. "It's awkward enough as it is, with both of us in one house…"

"Ooooh, and why is that, pray tell?" Elizabeta purred, leaning forward on her hands in interest. Tino replaced the lid on his Tupperware, his blush anything but fading, and looked Eliza straight in the eye.

"You want to talk about 'exploring possibilities'? Here's something for you," he said, packing the container away into his bag, "I'm going to find Berwald a date."

There was a lull in conversation as Elizabeta raised a single eyebrow, expression sardonic.

"I suggest checking the men's room," she offered.

"_Why_, in God's name?"

"'Cause it'll be easy to spot the perfect person for him in there; there are mirrors all along one wall."

"Ignoring both that comment _and_ the disturbing fact that you know the _exact_ layout of the men's room, _no_," Tino retorted. "It's just common sense that relationships can, in most cases, help people get to know themselves better, and the right partner has the potential to bring a person out of their shell. I'm going to go somewhere _respectable_ and find Berwald someone—_not me_—to date. Or die trying."

"_Tino_," the Hungarian woman warned, expression going from snarky to serious in the blink of an eye. "You can't just _push_ people into relationships. Berwald's really warmed to you, and you have the perfect opportunity to do more than _counsel_. For once I'm not even implying kinky kitchen sex. You could make his life better, and he could return the favor. I mean, you can't refuse fate for long without getting hurt."

"You're underestimating my powers of denial," he deflected, pulling the strap of his messenger bag onto one shoulder. "And I'm not going to _force_ anything. I'm _helping."_

"You're _running_," Elizabeta stated flatly. The Finn threw his hands in the air.

"I don't have to listen to this," he said. "There is _not—_nor will there _ever be_—_anything_ going on between us. _Ever!"_

His friend pursed her lips but didn't bother to add anything else. There was no reasoning with Tino when he buckled down on an issue. He strode off for the science wing, where their lecture was being held today, without another word. It was extremely unusual for him to argue with Elizabeta—his favorite co-conspirator—over anything, but when she started in on her GLBT matchmaking with _him_ in the hot seat, he couldn't help but get uncomfortable—especially now, with both him and Berwald in such close quarters. Her _'feeling'_ would only serve to make things uncomfortable, and he _really _didn't want things to be uncomfortable. Or more uncomfortable than they already were, after they'd gotten bedrooms confused in the middle of the night last week and Berwald had ended up sleeping in the living room, unwillingly to risk possibly suffocating his new housemate again.

Tino only made it a couple of yards before his cell phone rang, forcing him to a halt as he checked the caller ID.

Speak of the devil—it was Berwald.

Now why would he be calling in the middle of the day? Maybe he'd forgotten to tell Tino something that morning? Maybe he'd run out of delicious leftovers, and was wondering if Tino still had any? Maybe he'd been killed in a horrible lathe-related incident and this was actually _the coroner_ calling from the Swede's phone to inform him of his roommate's _demise?_

Tino answered so quickly he almost snapped the hinge on his flip phone.

"_Hello?"_

Silence, then the rustling of clothing and some garbled background noise.

"_Hello?"_ he tried again, straining to hear anything that sounded like a voice on the other end of the line. There was some static, but no voice.

"_Hello?"_ Tino repeated, getting aggravated when there was still no answer, but also a _little_ worried and—

_Oh._

"His pants called me. His _pants_," he mumbled, already hearing Elizabeta's amused and suggestive laughter on his mental soundtrack.

He briefly wondered if he was supposed to feel flattered.

Unable to help himself, Tino burst out laughing, his embarrassment and slight case of the blues somehow dashed by a single, ridiculous little phone call from the back pocket of his roommate's jeans. His thoughts now focused on the owner of the pair of pants that had so generously called him up, he pushed his extremely out-of-the-ordinary argument with Elizabeta from his mind and continued towards the science wing. He would apologize for freaking out on her later—possibly with cheesecake— but for now he idly wondered about Berwald, and whether or not the man had a _type_, since Tino was still going full steam ahead on his new plan to find his roommate a date.

_Little did he know…_

* * *

Berwald was currently undergoing 'interrogation' at the hands of one Lovino Vargas, the self-proclaimed 'leader' of their little 'gang'. 'Interrogation' that was complete with the dimly lit room, threats of violence if he didn't 'talk', and a desk lamp in his face. His glasses magnified the light to a painful degree, and that, coupled with the fact that he'd been in the middle of making a fairly ornate bench on commission, left him in a sour mood.

It showed on his face.

Lovino would've gone chicken shit hours ago if the enormous reputation he had to uphold hadn't blocked the only exit.

"So, your new roommate…" the Italian prompted, loosening his tie.

"T'no," Berwald supplied, glare lessening slightly for a moment, then sharpening again. "Wha'd'y'want with 'im?"

Lovino took a step back at that look, and then, both embarrassed with himself and angry at Berwald for being able to menace him so easily, took two big steps forward until he was practically in the other man's face.

"'_What do I want'_?" he repeated. "What I want is some information. Who is he? Where's he from? What does _he_ want? You tell me this, and we can both leave as satisfied men — you don't, and… and…"

He fumbled for the right words, and then tried to recall what his uncle, practically the _embodiment_ of a well-known church and part-time Mafioso, might have said.

"…and I'll have to make you an offer you can't refuse."

The line should've sounded corny, but, coming from Lovino, it instead subtly implied violence — like him moving furniture so that toes would be stubbed in the middle of the night, or him hiring somebody to come harass some neighbors into letting their dogs loose in _certain _gardens—not only Berwald's, which might lead to the destruction of a _certain_ Russian's favorite sunflowers, which might lead to a _certain _Russo-Swedish Wa— I mean, a _certain_ amount of _unpleasantness_.

Berwald had a lot of furniture, and, when he didn't have his glasses on, he often bumped into it. He didn't need the problem made worse by Lovino's petty revenge. Also, he liked his yard intact. And not having Ivan peering into his windows at night—or worse, _Tino's_ windows. With this in mind, he resolved to tell as little about the Finn as possible to satisfy the Italian — not that he really knew all that much to begin with. They'd talked, but not about anything personal, really.

"His name's T'no, an' he's come from Finl'nd to study at th'university. He wants a d'gree in pyschol'gy, an' possibly a dog."

"Don't fuck with me," Lovino growled, turning the desk lamp into Berwald's face again. "I don't care about his _dog_! I want dirt—_dirt!"_

In all actuality, Lovino didn't want "dirt" (really, he didn't know _what_ he wanted), but he felt like something was up. Not that many people got close to Berwald, and the man seemed to like it that way, but now… Now there was this unknown quantity in the man's life, and Lovino couldn't decide if that was good or bad. Tino looked like sweetness and sunshine, but you never knew what people looked like deep down till they showed it to you, and there was a certain edge that'd come out at the grill a couple of weeks ago that was suspect…

Also, if Tino killed everyone, he wanted to be able to say 'I told you so'. It would give him great pleasure in the afterlife.

Tired of having a lamp in his face, and needing to place a few calls, Berwald ignored Lovino's obvious intent to drag this out for as long as it took to find out Tino's middle name, most recent horoscope, and the number of freckles on his left shoulder.

"Look, y're prob'bly worri'd, I know, an' that's nice'n'all, but there's nothin' t'worry _about_," Berwald grumbled, straightening his glasses as he looked (glared) down at the much smaller Italian. "T'no means well. I th'nk."

Lovino pouted _furiously_ at the assertion that he actually _cared_ about _anyone_, but opened the door of the broom closet he'd dragged Berwald into for interrogation, obviously allowing him to leave.

"You _better_ think, you Swiss bastard," he fumed, puffing out one cheek in a way that Berwald could believe Antonio saw as cute. "Why do you think I keep you around, other than as an enforcer, _idiota_?"

Berwald made a face that Lovino supposed was an amused one, and was about to remind the Italian what kind of bastard he _really_ was, when Lovino paused as if remembering something, and then asked one last question.

"He does know that you're gay, right?"

There was a question that could put ice in your blood. Lovino tapped his foot, waiting for an answer, and cursed when the Swede's face gave it away.

"_Tu hai _spettacolarmente_ stupido!_ You didn't tell him, but you moved in with him? What, did you not think that was need-to-know information?"

Berwald eyes reflected guilt, but he stood his ground.

"S'not like he actually _needs t'know_," he countered. "There's nothin' goin' on, an' there won't be, so I don't see th'problem."

"Obviously there's _something_ going on, or you would've told him… That's just your way…" Lovino gave him a mocking look. "You're trying not to scare him off, aren't you?"

"Yeah, 'course—an' that plan seems t'be workin' _well_," Berwald grumbled, gesturing to his face. "He flinches when I _lookit_ 'im, L'vino. There'll be nothin' goin' on. _Ever."_

He left his 'boss' to work himself into a hissy fit about being 'talked down to' (really, at six feet, could Berwald talk to him any other way?) and started back down the hallway he'd entered in pursuit of carpenter's glue—before being kidnapped by the mafia—pulling his phone out as he went. He'd have to call his waiting customers to inform them that the bench he'd been working on would be a little later than promised, thanks to Lovino. He scrolled through his recently called—he'd last talked with the buyers not two hours ago—but was surprised to find that they were not at the top of his list of calls.

Tino was.

'_When did I call him?'_ was the only thought on Berwald's mind. He must've accidentally dialed the number when he knelt to hand-carve one of the bench pieces… God, he hated when things like that happened. His phone chose that moment to cheerfully buzz at him, helpfully telling the Swede something he already knew—he'd missed a call during his "interrogation", and his caller—a certain Finn—had left a voicemail.

He dialed his inbox, and waited through all of the necessary _'please enter your pass code, then press pound'_ crap before the message—which had been left by Tino, predictably enough—began to play.

There was nothing on the recording except the sounds of a jacket being adjusted and some muffled voices, obviously addressing someone else in the room and not the cell phone, and then some brief laughter as the call was ended.

And it _had_ been _ended_. Despite his best attempts, Tino hadn't been able to completely disguise the message as being from a particularly considerate pocket of his coat.

"Payback," Berwald decided, ignoring the weird looks he got from other students as he stepped onto the quad with something that suspiciously resembled a smile on his face.

* * *

**OMAKE**

* * *

"Suwehzan?"

"Yeah, Suwehzan!"

Tino was once again working as a host at Antonio's grill alongside Im Yong Soo, who was keeping them both entertained during a lull in business with a story he'd heard about Kiku, his Japanese cousin. Tino certainly hadn't expected Berwald to crop up in this story, but what really surprised him—more than the fact that Berwald had apparently ended up having to take Kiku's closet door off its hinges during an elephant-related incident—was the name Yong Soo had referred to him by.

"Why do you call him Suwehzan?" he asked, seriously confused. Did that mean something in Korean?

"Oh, that was something else Kiku did!" the dark-haired man supplied, rubbing his hands together as he started in on this particular story. "It's kind of like telephone! He heard someone call Berwald 'the Swede' before he learned the guy's actual name, so he called him something that sounded like 'suuweidesaan'. Alfred thought he said 'suede man', but everyone rejected that 'cause of the mental image of Berwald as a cowboy, and then that one Latvian kid ended up stuttering something that sounded like 'suuweeedizan'. I like Suwehzan, so that's the newest version going around."

The Korean crossed his arms and grinned with satisfaction, absolutely thrilled that he was the origin of the nickname. Tino frowned and slipped his hands into the pockets of his work apron, fishing out his little black book and scrawling what he thought Yong Soo had said.

"Whatcha doin'?" the other man asked, leaning over to try to see what Tino was writing. The Finn grinned and pulled the notebook to his chest, careful not to let the Korean see what was written on the opposite page from where he'd started brainstorming, as it was another entry on Berwald he'd prefer to keep private. Yong Soo pouted.

"I'm just trying my hand at it, no peeking," Tino chided. "Just… don't you think 'Suwehzan' is a mouthful? I'm going to get rid of a syllable…"

He wrote down several different ideas: 'wehzan', 'suweh', 'wehsu', but none of them seemed to fit, and the soft vowel at the end of most of them left him feeling like there was more to be said, which there wasn't.

"I think I'm overcomplicating this…" he mumbled, scratching out most of his tries with his ball point pen. "I need something _direct…"_

It was at that exact moment that Berwald himself walked into the bar, there to pick up Tino from his shift since they now lived too far away for the Finn to hoof it.

"Su-san!" was the first thing out of Tino's mouth. He had no clue why.

"_Susan_?" Berwald and Yong Soo asked at the same time, both looking equally horrified. Tino laughed and shook his head vigorously, waving his hands.

"No, Su-_san_! It's my version of the nickname!"

Berwald made an 'ohhhh' face and the Korean laughed, merrily slapping the much taller Swede on the back.

"Ah, Suwehzan! Look! I even got Teeny here to make up a nickname for you!"

The carpenter took his glasses off briefly to pinch the bridge of his nose, acting like he had a headache coming on, but otherwise didn't comment.

"It works though, Su-san," Tino pointed out, internally congratulating his subconscious mind, which must have been chewing on the nickname much longer than his conscious mind, which had started to wander and had left him doodling on the corners of his notebook paper. "Simple, to-the-point."

"Mmh, guess it's bett'r than 'S'wehzan'," he said. "Doesn't make me sound l'ke a type o'_noodle_."

"So, _can_ I call you 'Su-san'?" Tino asked, tucking his little black book away before it caught the Swede's eye. "If you don't mind, that is."

He put on his sweetest smile, and Berwald shrugged, not exactly saying yes or no.

"How 'bout a deal?" he proposed, sipping his glasses back into place and trying to ignore the fact that Tino's fellow host had stuck a note out on the Finn the moment his back was turned that most likely read, 'MADE IN KOREA'. "Y'can call me 'Su-s'n', an' I'll give you a n'ckname."

Thinking that nothing mild-mannered Berwald could come up with would be something to be ashamed of, Tino instantly agreed, inwardly reflecting that 'Su-san' sounded a lot cuter than 'Berwald', which would probably help him on his quest to find the man a date.

"HOLD UP!" Yong Soo cut in, fake karate-chopping the air between the two of them. "You've gotta shake on it; make it official! I can't even _tell _you how many people have squirmed out of deals because no one shook on it!"

Tino laughed and shook hands with Berwald, who smiled a little himself at how silly the whole thing seemed. The Finn's much smaller hand disappeared into that of the newly christened Su-san's for a moment before it was returned, warmer than before. Gathering his things, he went and said goodbye to Antonio before leaving for the night. He'd almost forgotten to ask what his new nickname was going to be until they were getting ready to hop on the taller man's motorbike.

"So, what am_ I_ now?"

"Huh?" Berwald replied, straddling the bike as Tino got on behind him.

"What're you going to call me?" the Finn rephrased. "I forgot to ask before."

Berwald started the engine of the bike and let it warm up for a few moments in silence before he responded, with a completely straight face:

"M'wife."

"_What?"_

_

* * *

_

**A/N:** I HAD TO. ALSO, SWEDEN'S PANTS ARE CALLING YOU, _RIGHT NOW_. CHECK YOUR PHONE.

Anyway, I noticed recently that, among SuFin fanfics, there are a _lot _of similar threads. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, it's just that it's kind of annoying—seeing as a lot of authors like to use canon, like I do—to read a fic when the same ideas are repeated over and over in others. I like "Su-san", but just when I thought I had an original idea for how to slip it in, I read a fanfic where that idea had already been put to use. I was pretty aggravated, but I worked on it and came up with the above. Hope you liked it.

ALSO, there was a random cameo in here I don't think anyone will catch (and it's not Old Fritz or Latvia!). If you do, you earn the title of "SERIOUSLY, STOP WATCHING/READING/BREATHING HETALIA AND GO EAT A STEAK" lord. It's a great title, my friends, and you most definitely want it. /kolz

As always, my sincerest thanks goes out to you guys, and I hope you'll take the time to review, because I read each and every one I receive with gratitude and happiness. And Swedish Fish. Yum, Swedish Fish. If you review, you'll win some fake internet ones! Yay!

Thanks for reading all the way to the end!

- C


	9. Embarrassing Doesn't Cover It

**A/N: **...two...hundred...two _hundred_...TWO HUNDRED _PLUS _REVIEWS?

Use your imagination to insert a scream of utter happiness here. _Please._ I love you guys. In thanks, please enjoy the longest chapter of Treatment yet, which comes in at a crazy 8,140 words! I hope this makes up for it being super late. (orz)

Also, before I go on, I'd like to BELATEDLY thank **Craic agus Ceol** for correcting my Russian in chapter seven! Somehow I managed to forget to include thanks last chapter, even though I used the suggestion (I definitely liked using it more than Google translate, thank you very much! XD). Thanks given, I'm gonna let you guys know there's some more blind translating in this chapter, so if you actually speak Spanish, Dutch, etc, feel free to correct me! I'm taking four years of Japanese, and so far it has done _zip_ for me.

Anyway, onto to the main attraction—who won the title of "SERIOUSLY, STOP WATCHING/READING/BREATHING HETALIA AND GO EAT A STEAK" lord? Well, a lot of you guys got Latvia's random mention, but that wasn't the one I meant, though I'm still awed by the fact that y'all read closely enough to catch that. No, the cameo that I award the title of "SERIOUSLY, STOP WATCHING/READING/BREATHING HETALIA AND GO EAT A STEAK" lord for catching was Romano's "uncle", who **Moonlight-is-Innocence**,** Ill give flowers-for your life**, and **loving4tomorrow **all correctly guessed was Vatican City! Congratulations to you for deciphering what I meant when I wrote, "He fumbled for the right words, and then tried to recall what his uncle, practically the embodiment of a well-known church, might have said." Yes, I made the Vatican kind of… evil-ish. In my defense I had just watched _Angels & Demons_ and… blah. That was really random, but after the positive feedback I got for slipping in Moldova many chapters back, I decided to toss in another obscure character. Plenty of cameos this chapter too, if you feel like digging them out (no prize, though D: ).

Lastly, I'd like to thank **she wore lemon **for catching the fact that in chapter four I wrote 'Sweden' instead of 'Berwald'. I don't have a beta, so I appreciate it when people point that stuff out to me! :D

**WARNING(S):** This whole chapter is… asdfghjkl;

* * *

Tino's day started with a mail call, letters and various advertisements just starting to trickle in, rejected at both his and Berwald's previous addresses and forwarded to their new home. He retrieved a hefty bundle of post that'd been stuffed in their box, and began sorting it between his hands as he headed back to the house. He separated by addressee, taking a moment to admire the glossy covers of the home improvement magazines Berwald subscribed to before hunting up his quarterly psychology digest. Halfway through the stack, an envelope appeared that was addressed not to him or Berwald, but him _and_ Berwald.

Or at least that was what he assumed, since it read, 'To Mr. and Mrs. Berwald Oxenstierna'.

_Oooooh_, that was _so_ not funny.

Tino would've crumpled it and stomped it to bits, except that the letter had been mailed in a real parchment envelope, all the mailing information was in calligraphy, and there was an actual _wax _seal on the back.

In other words, it looked important.

It also didn't have a place in either pile held in his hands, which left him to try to tuck it between his lips and stumble back in the house, where he promptly lost his balance on the frosty welcome mat and ended up in a pile of mail in the entryway. He let out a sigh of exasperation, ruffling a letter that had settled into his hair, and looked up.

Berwald stood at the kitchen island, fighting laughter. How Tino was able to tell was beyond him, since the man's expression was on axe murder default.

"D'you need h'lp?" the Swede asked, setting aside the newspaper he'd been reading and starting to walk over.

"Npp, m'fnn!" the psych major grumbled around the envelope in his mouth, sweeping everything back into his arms so he could spill it again, this time on the dining room table. Berwald raised an eyebrow at the fact that he and Tino now had comparable accents, and walked over to take the letter pressed between the smaller man's lips.

He'd had no idea why Tino was both blushing and glaring at him until he'd seen how it was addressed. The only thing that stopped a tiny smirk from blooming on his lips was the very real possibility that Tino might flip the table onto his head.

Or make dinner again. Both options made Berwald sweat.

"Looks like the whole world is trying to make up for the lack of spam the past two weeks… almost makes you wish the post office _didn't_ forward stuff…" the Finn said, breaking the awkward silence as he retrieved five new credit card offers addressed to him and set them aside to be shredded. "So, who's the letter from?"

Berwald broke the seal, not seeing a return address that might tell him, and relied on the envelope's contents. A card fell out into his hand, and he read it with obvious suspicion.

"S'an inv'tation," he supplied. "…fr'm Franc's…?"

That certainly explained the 'mister and missus' jibe in the address — Berwald's little 'joke' had spread like wildfire through the gang. Francis was either taunting him, or devoutly believed that _l'amour_ had driven them to exchanging vows under cover of night. It was embarrassing either way.

"Let me see," Tino insisted, leaning over Berwald's arm to read. "'You are invited… To Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy's fourth annual Christmas Ball… to be held at the Bonnefoy Manor, December the 24th, from seven o'clock to midnight. The event will be semi-formal… and there will be dancing'? Wow… 'You are encouraged to bring a date'…"

The last line sent Tino's mind sprinting off at a thousand miles per hour, despite a small twinge of uneasiness at the idea of a party at _Francis's _house. He couldn't have asked for a better chance to hunt up a date for his stoic roommate. Energized by Opportunity's timely knock, he looked up at Berwald with a bright smile.

And promptly winced. _If looks could kill…_

"What's wrong?" Tino asked, trying to ignore the sour look. Berwald slid the invitation across the table's surface and sighed, pulling his copy of _Fine Woodworking_ to him and shaking it open to a random article.

"M'not a party pers'n," he grumbled after a moment, ears pinking at even the_ prospect_ of being part of a social gathering. All that talking... and mingling... and _talking_... Tino watched the parade of awkward emotions march through his roommate's eyes carefully. He frowned and picked up the invitation, moving to stick it on the fridge.

"I get how it'd be uncomfortable to go by yourself to a party," the Finn conceded, turning back to his roommate and perching on the kitchen counter, "but if you take a date, or someone you know well, it can be really fun! You should definitely go."

Berwald glanced up from an article on constructing dresser drawers to Tino's smiling face. The small man looked cheerful, but there was an insistence in his eyes that the Swede could only guess would lead to him giving in, even if it took hours of slow pressure and some dangerous-looking leftovers. Berwald slipped his glasses off for a moment and pretended to clean them on his shirt, if only so he wouldn't have to see his fate in Tino's sweet — but unrelenting — smile.

Like he could say no. His only options now were either to figure out what '_semi_-formal' meant or wing it.

Considering his wardrobe, he'd be doing some Googling this evening.

"Guess t'wouldn't hurt t'go..." he finally relented, pretending that he'd come to the decision of his own accord — and not because he hadn't wanted to see a look of disappointment on Tino's face. He knitted his brow and pretended that he still wasn't completely won over, though the look didn't seem to be having much effect on his roommate, who'd hopped off the counter and clapped excitedly.

"I'd hoped you'd say that!" Tino said, rubbing his hands together. "Now all we have to do is find you a date! Oh, and I thought Christmas couldn't be any more exciting!"

Berwald's mind stopped. Find him a date...? As in, a _girl?_ Panic rose within him as he tried to get a word in edgewise against the chatty Finn.

"Um, 'bout th't…"

"Oh, crap!" Tino hissed, glancing up at the kitchen clock and missing what Berwald was trying to say altogether. "I'm going to be late for my seminar. We'll have to talk more later. Bye!"

And with that, the whirling hurricane of early morning peppiness that was Tino Väinämöinen tossed his bag over his shoulder and ran out the door. Berwald was left at the table with a rapidly cooling mug of coffee and Francis's invitation, wondering how _in the hell_ he was going to get the message across to Tino that they didn't exactly... browse the same markets. Berwald had never been called expressive — not even as an insult — so what was he supposed to do, send out "rainbow waves" and hope they reached Planet Tino before he ended up having to make awkward small talk with 'Miss Sorority Broad 2010' for all of Christmas Eve?

Mind a muddled mess, the Swede pulled out his cell phone and deactivated his newly discovered key guard feature. He began dialling Vash, but then paused halfway, backed up, and dialled Antonio instead. What he needed was advice on was how to… subtly… tell Tino he was gay — Vash was still in the closet, as far as he knew, but Antonio couldn't be more obvious about his sexuality if he painted it up on a billboard.

Wait... wasn't that the way he'd asked Lovino to go out with him...?

Feeling some serious embarrassment by association, the Swede stood and leaned against the counter to wait out the ringing, hoping that a certain Spaniard would get up for the day and answer his phone before Berwald had to try to field the "M'diff'rent, T'no" speech on his own.

* * *

Tino himself charged down the street to his bus with more than a little relief. He hadn't seen such a stern and apparently uncomfortable look on Berwald's face since they'd moved in together. The expression made _him_ feel like he'd accidentally locked himself in the fridge — God, what would that do to a perspective _girlfriend?_

Hopeless, Tino claimed a seat on the bus and slumped into it, searching for consolation in the _Cross-Cultural Psychology Bulletin_ he'd gotten that morning. He read the same abstract five times before he realized that focusing on anything other than his thoughts was going to be impossible — until, that is, he came up with some sort of plan. It would be too obvious, and not to mention strange, for him to just wander up to girls and try to get the information he wanted — namely, what they thought of Berwald, whether or not they'd be interested in dating him if he loosened up a little, etc — so he'd have to think outside of the box.

Still, even if he got a girl to take an interest in Berwald… he would probably be in a bad mood for all of the party. Tino sometimes had to keep himself from flinching when the Swede turned on him with one of those _looks_ of his — again, he could only imagine a flighty co-ed running out of Francis's house screaming when Berwald's ill cheer showed on his face. Tino sank further into his seat, worrying his bottom lip as his mind thought itself in knots, barely registering as the bus passed stop after stop.

Possibly, his next thought was an epiphany brought to him by the terrifying thought of _Professor Monaco's_ face when she caught her favorite Finnish student zoning out in class, trying to play matchmaker to the campus's least eligible bachelor. A plan had suddenly hit Tino like a phonebook to the face — and really, only fear could drive his brain into that strange a corner. It was a plan whose seeds could have only been sown in his mind by Elizabeta herself, it was so… _devious_… and _mortifying_. It was so far 'outside the box' it wasn't even in the same friggin' _building _as the box_._

They say desperate times call for desperate measures. Tino hoped to God that times were desperate enough for _these _measures.

* * *

"So… coming out?"

"Yeah. Mean, I guess. M'ybe."

Antonio smiled up at the fidgeting Swede as warmly as he could after being awakened from his tomato-laden dreams at the ungodly hour of seven in the morning.

"What, are you not sure?" the Spaniard asked, pushing a chilled glass of tea towards his acquaintance. "It is important for your future, yes?"

Berwald contemplated the many awkward hours ahead of feigning interest in whatever random girl Tino managed to dupe into believing that they were 'thinking of the wrong Berwald,' and nodded in agreement.

"Yeah. S'import'nt. Very."

Antonio's eyes seemed to light up, and he immediately jumped out of his chair and hollered something in Spanish to the wait staff, who — knowing Berwald as they did — immediately brought over a large glass of lager to replace his iced tea and took to smiling themselves.

The only effect all this had on Berwald was to creep him out. The sudden smiling was… unnerving, to say the least.

Plus, that was a lot of beer for seven in the morning. Not that he was complaining.

"My good friend!" Toni enthused, returning to the table with a double shot of tequila and an even broader smile. "I am so happy for you. It will be such a change in your life."

Berwald cocked an eyebrow.

"M'only comin' out t'one pers'n. S'not s'big a deal."

"It is the _right_ person, though!"

At this, the Swede physically sat down his drink.

"Whaddy'mean, 'th'right pers'n'?" he asked, brow furrowing. "Y'don't know who I'm comin' out to."

"_Pero, eso es obvio…_" the Spaniard replied, probably not noticing he'd slipped into his native tongue by accident. Berwald just gave him the blankest look he could manage through his usual glare and sipped his beer again.

"Toni. 'Nglish, pleas'. Not th't I know what y're talkin' 'bout anyw'y."

"So, _what?"_ Antonio asked, frowning slightly in a way that was extremely uncharacteristic of him. "You're _not_ marrying the little Finn? I thought that's what we were here to talk about, yes?"

Thus commenced a very amusing moment in which Berwald spewed more beer onto the counter than was left in his glass.

"_What?"_

"'What' yourself — I thought he was your wife," Antonio said, laughing a bit as the Swede grabbed a napkin to mop up the beer. "You mean you're not head over heels for Tino?"

"_No_, m'not," Berwald muttered uneasily, sipping what was left of his drink with care, lest Antonio say something unexpected again. The Spaniard had a dubious look on his face.

"So… you don't think he's cute?"

The Swede glared at Antonio uncomfortably.

"How's that relev'nt?"

"So you do?"

"M'not dignifyin' that with a resp'nse," Berwald grumbled, ignoring the Spaniard's wheedling tone. The fact that Tino did have a lot of... _cuteness_... at his disposal — which he sometimes used for evil purposes, like pressuring anti-social Swedes into attending parties — had _nothing_ to do with what he'd called Toni to talk about. Still, the man wasn't going to give up that easily.

"Don't you think he's sweet?" Antonio tried again, this time physically poking him. Berwald just gave a non-committal shrug, wondering why he'd thought meeting with Antonio would help _anything_.

"I see, then you really aren't interested…" the smaller man conceded with a sigh. "Because, if you were, I might've had some useful information for you… I am his employer, after all…"

Berwald's eyes bored into Toni's.

"What kind of 'nf'rmation?" he asked, trying to be subtle. Not that he was interested, per se — he wanted to know just what kind of tabs Antonio was keeping on his roommate. Security purposes, you know. For his part, Toni did his best not to smile _too_ broadly at the taller man's curiosity.

"Like... do you know when his birthday is?"

Berwald blinked. He hadn't thought to ask.

"And... that's a no," the Spaniard decided with a laugh. "I'll call it a freebie — he'll be celebrating his twenty-second on December sixth."

That wasn't too far off. Berwald started to thank Antonio for letting him know, then remembered that he wasn't _supposed_ to be interested. Whoops. He settled for a stern nod, acknowledging the information, but not really giving away whether or not he wanted more.

"Did you know... he speaks not only English and Finnish, but Swedish too?" Toni offered anyway, leaning forward with his chin cupped in his hands. "Being multilingual was part of the reason I hired him. Better not try talking behind his back! But the most interesting thing..."

He trailed off purposefully, to see if Berwald would take the bait.

"Yeah?" the Swede prompted, pretending to be fascinated by the last of the lager in his glass. This time Antonio didn't try to smother his smile.

"...he's absolutely _obsessed_ with The Moomins."

"The Moom'ns?" Berwald asked, brow furrowing. "That's… How d'y'know that?"

"For reasons unknown to me, he put it on his application," the tanned man supplied, spreading his hands with a good-natured grin. "I thought it was cute."

It was. Very. Berwald could just picture Tino filling the form out, writing that little piece of information randomly in the 'Is There Anything I Should Know About You?' section Antonio had added to the previous grill owner's application. Possibly even doodling Moomin Papa on the corner of the paper before erasing him in embarrassment. The Swedish man shook his head to dispel the image and the slight pink tint that had dusted his cheek bones as he pictured it, trying to remember what exactly he'd meant to talk about before getting side-tracked by Toni's assumptions about him and Tino.

Oh. Right. Coming out of the closet.

"Toni..."

And just as he boarded the correct train of thought, Berwald turned to find the Spaniard hurrying off, waving over his shoulder apologetically.

"_¡Lo siento_, Berwald!" he called over his shoulder. "I've got to open up the grill! We'll talk later!"

Then he was gone — disappeared into the restaurant's innards, and the Swedish man was left at the table with an empty glass of lager, no useful advice, and some random information about his roommate. Now he was just going to have to hope that when Tino got home from his classes he wouldn't have a girl in tow.

Berwald needn't have worried. When four o' clock rolled around, the only sign of the Finn he got was a text saying that he would 'be out with friends for awhile'.

This wasn't entirely true. He _would_ be out for awhile, but while Eduard von Bock was as dear to him as a brother, he couldn't be reached — and at no point in time had Tino ever considered Feliks Łukasiewicz a 'friend'.

* * *

"I'm still a man, I'm still a man, I'm still a— hey, stop snapping my bra strap!"

"Just, like, checking to see that it's well adjusted."

Tino squeaked as the Polish man snapped the strap one last time with a little too much enthusiasm. He sat back, taking a moment to survey his masterpiece before digging into his makeup kit again. Tino peeked into the full length mirror on the closet door and had the awkward sensation of not quite recognizing who he was looking at. Feliks might be an annoyance to the nth degree, but he was a magician with powder and blush. The Pole in question made a 'tsk'ing sound and turned the Finn so they were facing each other again, oh-so-subtly reminding Tino of their little agreement: he couldn't _really_ look at himself until he was _completely_ made-over.

"Please tell me why," Tino asked for the umpteenth time, "I called for Eduard and somehow ended up locked in a bedroom with you?"

"Eddy's at work with Liet, and I happen to be the resident expert on gender confusion," the Pole explained with a world-weary sigh. "Besides which, where else are you going to get good heels without paying an arm and a leg?"

"I am _not_ 'gender confused'!" Tino asserted, fisting his hands in the mid-length plaid skirt he wore. "I'm just on a mission! And I'm not wearing anything taller than an inch, _thank you very much_. I'm going undercover, not on a girls' night out."

"_Suuuuuuure_," Feliks said, tone laced with innuendo. "And you're, like, _totally_ not digging the breeze between your knees?"

Tino twitched. "It's too bad there isn't another reception desk around, or else I would call Berwald…"

"Don't threaten the tranny putting on your mascara, lover boy," Feliks chided, motioning for the Finn not to blink as he brandished the blackened little brush. "'Sides which, your studly Swedish husband totally doesn't scare me — at least not in these flats."

"My God, why does everybody— for the last time he is _not _my— _ohyaaa_, watch where you're poking that thing!"

"Be thankful it was only the corner of your eye, and not, like, right in the middle of it, shortstuff," the Pole purred, wiping a tear away from the injured eye before it could ruin any of his wonderful makeup job. He swept the brush over the irritated Finn's eyelashes until no clumps remained, then sat back again to survey the finished product. Satisfied, he pulled the small man to his feet and swung him round until he was facing the mirror full-on, from head to toe.

For the first time that day, Tino was glad that Eduard had activated 'the Baltic phone tree' that ultimately led to the receptionist from Hell waltzing back into his life.

White blouse, plaid skirt, black stockings, white suede boots with only a half inch of heel… It was more conservative than he'd expected from the Pole. The outfit was topped off with a tan pea coat and a wig of shoulder-length blonde a shade lighter than his own. Add in the matching accessories provided by Feliks — as well as the stuffed bra — and he could pass for a typical college girl.

Granted, a very tame, meek-looking college girl — but he wasn't exactly going for 'Miss Sorority Broad 2010'.

"Feliks, you're magic," Tino said, fingering one of the clip-on earrings dangling along the curve of his neck. "Horrible, _horrible_ magic. I actually look like a girl."

"Duh, you _already_ looked like a— "

"_Feliks."_

"_Whaaaat?"_

Tino sighed and resisted the urge to ruin the makeup job by rubbing his brow. "Anyway, I'll look after the outfit. This stuff looks expensive."

"It's not mine; I wouldn't know," Feliks said with a shrug, crouching next to one of the Finn's legs. "Toris brings home _totes_ of overstock from his shop whenever they run out of room, so there's, like, always _something_ rad to wear for free. Now stop wiggling — your seams are, like, totally crooked."

Tino waited patiently as Feliks adjusted his stockings, evaluating the next part of his plan. Actually, 'coming up with' would be more accurate than 'evaluating' — to be frank, he hadn't really planned much beyond the makeover. Something about running around in a skirt for the better part of the evening had kind of distracted him from the actual goal, getting close enough to other girls to either scout — or nab, if he could — Berwald's potential date. As if reading his thoughts, Feliks popped back up from the floor and hooked a conspiratorial arm around his waist.

"So, now that you're, like, looking way fab, where are you headed?" he asked, fiddling with the edges of Tino's skirt a bit. The psych major seemed to consider this for a moment, a blank expression on his face as he thought about it.

"I don't know," Tino murmured. "I'd originally figured on somewhere where a lot of girls go and talk with other girls, but I have no clue… women's restroom?"

Feliks pulled a face. "Don't be a creeper, shortstuff — even I totally can't bring myself to explore _that _final frontier."

"But I just don't know of any other places girls… congregate…?" the Finn pointed out. "Any suggestions?"

Feliks' lips curled up in the most devious smirk Tino had ever seen.

"I was, like, _totally_ waiting for you to ask that."

* * *

It wasn't classy enough to bear the name of the original show after which it was modeled, but if Tino'd had any doubts about whether there would be enough girls to talk to at "Chuck 'n' Dales" that night, they were dashed the moment he put one high-heeled foot in the door.

It was packed. With women. _Only_ women.

Tino took a moment to let go of the 'I am a man' mantra he'd been chanting, both mentally and audibly, since Feliks had started applying his foundation. He was going to have to _work _to blend in here, and it wouldn't help to be muttering to himself that yes, he was very masculine, and no, his eyes were not nicely accentuated by the pale blue shadow the Pole had liberally applied.

The next thing he noticed beyond the occupants of the darkened club was the stage. Or, namely, who was on it.

Stripping men were on it, to be precise.

Tino pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees on one heel and went straight over to the bar. He'd never felt more grateful to have reached his twenty-first birthday than now, as he tried to ignore the seedy music and sound of women making catcalls in the background. He ordered one of the half-price margarita specials, going for the most girly drink he could think of short of something ending in 'tini', and was immediately carded. He already looked young when he _wasn't _made up and wearing fake boobs — in his full 'girl get-up', he looked about five years younger. He grudgingly rifled around in his borrowed clutch and pulled out his ID and some money, handing them over. His fingers had glanced over his notebook in the search, and, as his drink was being made, he took the opportunity to write:

_Thursday_

_Trying to get a date for Berwald, I assumed, would require some real effort. And it is already. There are plenty of girls here, though the… club… is fairly questionable in its… everything. How Feliks thought this would be a good idea is beyond me._

He closed his notebook and took a moment to wallow in misery. Where, in God's name, _had_ Feliks sent him? He'd been expecting some dancing, maybe, but not a girls-only _strip club._ He sank even farther down in his seat as he realized what an embarrassing situation he was in — trapped in a male strip club, in a skirt, without enough booze to make the whole thing plausible. What had his life come to?

And speaking of his booze, what was the hold-up…?

Tino looked up to find the bartender, a Dutch man he vaguely remembered having bumped into on campus once, looking back and forth from the ID to Tino, an amused grin spreading over his face. The Finn just looked at him blankly, wondering what was wrong, until the man returned his ID, handed over his drink, and said, without missing a beat:

"Here's your margarita, _Mr._ Väinämöinen. Enjoy the show."

Tino stared at him in disbelief for about three seconds. Then he deflated, and pushed the drink back across the counter

"Dump this," he said, letting his head sink into his hands, "and give me my money's worth in cheap vodka."

The barkeep nodded, still smirking, and poured him a few shots. "Just as well. Your secret dies with me."

"Nobody's dying until I get another pint of Duvel, _domme broer_," a woman's voice cut in. The woman herself appeared only moments later, slamming down an empty glass on the bar and wedging herself between Tino and the person next to him. The bartender grumbled in annoyance but opened the tap, pouring the woman a fresh glass of blonde ale as she fiddled with the black ribbons in her equally blonde hair impatiently. When he returned a full glass he got a good ruffling of his wildly spiked brown hair and a snarky 'there's a good boy' comment. It was only as the woman turned to leave with her drink did she spot Tino perched on the barstool, dismally knocking back his second shot.

"What's wrong with you, sweetheart?" she asked him, propping her free hand on her hip. Tino blinked, for a moment not realizing she was talking to him. Before he could come up with a reply, another woman flanked him, this one with long, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. Some kind of backstage pass hung down over her green áo dài, and a bottle of light beer was in her left hand, held carelessly.

"Bad boyfriend?" she suggested, her dark eyes taking in Tino's mild appearance and apparent depression. The first woman seemed to nod in agreement with the pronouncement, and before Tino could even think _another _woman appeared, this one right behind him. He started to feel trapped — and that was before he was pulled backward into an ample bosom shaking with sobs.

"Oh, you poor dear," the woman whimpered with a slight Ukrainian accent, "it always hurts when you have to be apart from a man you love, but eventually… eventually…"

Eventually what had become sniffling dissolved into full-on sobs again, and Tino ended up murmuring therapeutic words while the blonde with the freshly tapped ale harassed her brother for Kleenex and a shot of vodka. Tino diagnosed the distraught woman on the spot with some kind of severe separation anxiety — a diagnosis that was immediately verified when the woman in the áo dài began mopping her eyes.

"Brother issues. It's pretty bad," was all she supplied, peeling the buxom woman off of Tino's coat and helping her to lean against the bar. "C'mon Katyusha, let's go back to the table and forget all about Ivan…"

Oh. So this was Braginski's fabled older sister, Yekaterina "Katyusha" Braginskaya. That certainly explained why the woman was in compulsive tears — the falling out between them was of such epic proportions that it was already campus legend.

Her cup size was also mythic, but Tino wasn't going near that one with a ten foot pole.

"Is she going to be okay?" he asked the bartender's sister, who downed the shot Yekaterina had left behind before favoring him with an affectionate grin.

"She'll be fine in a little while," she assured, patting the top of Tino's head fondly. "You're sweet to be worried about a stranger when you yourself look so depressed. Or you do as far as I can tell. I've had a few, though. What's your name, kid?"

"Um… T-Taina? Pleased to meet you," Tino said, stumbling over his words as he blurted out a random alias. "And you are?"

"Sorry, sweetie — that's confidential information! If my name got back to my dorm head associated with _this place_, there'd be hell to pay," the woman replied, her tone light and conspiratorial. "All you need to know is that I'm Belgian, and in Belgium, when someone is nice to a friend, we return in kind. Grab your shots and follow me — we've got front row seats to the show!"

Tino had almost forgotten 'the show'. He went the color of a Bloody Mary as he tuned back into the sights and sounds of the bar, but followed regardless. He was led to a circular table at the foot of the stage, around which were seated not just Katyusha and the dark-haired woman who'd dragged her out of Tino's lap, but also three other women, one of which he recognized as being Vash's sister.

She _had _to be too young for this place. Then again, in his getup, he looked around seventeen not twenty-one — he had no space to judge.

Tino regarded the others at the table out of the corner of his eye. Directly to his left sat a cheery-looking tanned girl with dark hair pulled forward in identical low-set pigtails; to _her _left sat a pale girl with haunting blue eyes and hair that fell past her belt. He got an appraising look from all three.

"I brought Taina over from the bar so that my pedo of a brother wouldn't hit on her," the Belgian offered as she grabbed a chair. "Besides, no girl should drink alone after a breakup."

Tino got a new look this time, a mix of pity and sympathy. Vash's sister in particular focused on him, and he was suddenly very glad he'd enlisted Feliks's help for the evening. She couldn't put a fix on where she might have seen him before, and he couldn't remember her name anyway, so things evened out nicely.

"Sorry about earlier," Yekaterina said after a quiet moment. "I hope I didn't leave any tear stains on you. That's such a nice jacket…"

"No worries," Tino insisted. "I'm just glad you seem to be feeling better."

"She's right, though. That _is _a nice jacket," the tanned girl pointed out, sharing a look with the other women at the table. "Getting back in the game already?"

And what was Tino supposed to say, '_No, I just always wear designer clothes of unknown origin given to me by a transvestite motel manager on his day off'_?

"Um, yeah, y'know, guy shopping…" the psych major agreed, knocking back his last shot between thoughts. "Not that this exactly the best place to find men…"

"Straight men. Not the best place to find _straight men_," the woman he assumed to be Vietnamese corrected, waving her hand to get the attention of a wandering waiter. "We've got gay men coming out of our ears. Of course, you could always try for one of the performers…"

The eyes of six women moved to the stage, and Tino, so as not to be too conspicuous, joined them.

Ah, the pants. The lack thereof. Hm. What psychological disorder could lead to an interest in exotic dancing? Tino's mind set to work figuring that out, pleasantly removing itself from the issue of well-toned abs and saucy music.

"So," Katyusha began after a long moment, dragging Tino's attention away from the rapidly disappearing clothing of the male dancers and back to 'Taina''s boy troubles. "Is your eye on any man in particular?"

Tino had been looking for an opening to ask about Berwald all evening. He wasn't about to pass up one that had practically been gift-wrapped and dropped in his lap.

"Um, what do you think of… Berwald Oxenstierna…?"

There was stunned silence as every woman at the table set down her drink and stared at Tino in utter shock. Even Vash's sister looked surprised.

Which was just a _little_ bit awkward. Yeah.

Then the pale girl, who hadn't previously contributed anything to the conversation, spoke up:

"He's pretty sexy."

"To you, Natalia, but your taste in men is _beyond _questionable," the Belgian woman pointed out, before looking at Tino with obvious concern. "Honey, I admire your bravery, but that man will eat you alive!"

Suddenly, almost everyone at the table began bombarding the Finn with reasons to run away from the Swede as fast as he could:

"He's always riding around on that motorbike at break-neck speeds — he obviously has no regard for safety!"

"God, he dresses like a military nut all the time — his garage is probably full of submachine guns and stuff!"

"The people he hangs around with are dangerous and super creepy — I've heard he's even in a _gang_."

"He always looks like he's ready to murder someone — trying to have a touching 'look into my eyes' moment with him will give you a heart attack."

All their apparently well-meant concern heaped upon him, and Tino began suffering from some severe déjà vu. For a moment he didn't even know why. Then, under the table, his hand slipped into his clutch and found his little black notebook. They were pretty much saying everything he'd written, just in less technical terms.

Suddenly, he wasn't just feeling embarrassed and edgy. He was sick to his stomach.

True, Berwald rode his bike like the devil was on his tail, but he always made sure that Tino was wearing a helmet and holding on tight before he moved an inch. True, he dressed in dark tones, but they suited him — and the Finn knew for a fact that the most dangerous things in his garage were not mail order from _Guns and Ammo, _but _Carpentry Magazine. _True, Francis wasn't exactly 'polite company' — but, as Tino had gotten to know 'the gang' over the last couple of weeks, he'd come to understand that they were all _fundamentally_ good people, just with problems like everyone else. How Vash's own sister didn't speak up against that was beyond him. And Berwald's face…

It was just his face. True, it was stuck in a perma-scowl, but that wasn't any reason to count him out as 'boyfriend material.' Right?

But Tino couldn't bring himself to hold their judgments against them. They didn't know Berwald any better than he had two weeks ago. It was just… he was now surrounded by women who were giving him the sympathetic expressions one would usually reserve for a battered wife, and he knew that Berwald didn't deserve that. The sick feeling in his stomach grew until it was full on nausea.

"I've got to go," he said, pretending to glance down at his wrist. "I'll be late for a very pressing… research paper…"

"Oh, c'mon Taina — stay for at least another round! The show's barely started!" the tanned girl protested, tugging on the sleeve of TIno's pea coat. The Finn gently pushed her off, muttering something about 'no time, gotta go', and then he was finally free. He managed to get out the door, through dangerous crowds of drunken co-eds, in a minute flat.

Back at the table, the six women clustered around it all shared a confused look.

"Was it something we said?" Katyusha asked, eying 'Taina''s last shot, which was untouched.

"Her heart must be set on Oxenstierna," Natalia pronounced, downing it herself. "Besides, research papers wait for no one."

"Yeah, sure," the Belgian agreed skeptically, "but did anyone actually _see _a watch?"

* * *

Tino returned home as a man, dog tired and ruing the fact he'd allowed Feliks to talk him into _any_ kind of heel. He was still suffering from a little guilt-induced nausea, and wanted nothing more than to climb into bed and go to sleep, despite the fact that he actually did have a paper to write (it seemed like he _always _had a paper to write). His house key turned smoothly in the lock, and he pushed open the door wearily, excessively glad to be back in pants.

The scene that greeted him made him want to go back to the club, grab the women he'd met there, and drag them over to see it too.

Berwald had wandered around the kitchen island so that — unfortunately for him — he was in full view of the hallway, a can of Surströmming in one hand, the other poised in the air, fingers half extended as if running over keys. The radio was on, and ABBA was playing for some inexplicable reason — from the shocked look on Berwald's face, Tino must've walked in on him in the middle of an air-keyboard jam session.

He put the can down on the island and cleared his throat, turning off the radio quickly.

"Evenin'."

It'd been a long day, and, in Tino's defense, he couldn't _help_ but burst out laughing.

"What?" the Swede asked, leaning on the counter nonchalantly. Tino just walked over to the dining room table and threw himself down in a chair.

"Nothing," the Finn said, smiling. "Just… the girls at this school are shallow."

"Mm. Th'guys're bett'r," Berwald replied, without skipping a beat.

And suddenly two people froze, one wondering if he'd heard correctly, the other mentally kicking himself. Words just didn't _slip out _of Berwald's mouth of their own volition — he was a tight-lipped guy, to say the least. Apparently, his worry the entire day over how to come out to Tino had culminated in his common sense relinquishing the voice controls.

Well, that certainly took care of his closet problems.

The now mortified Swedish man busied himself with trying to find the can opener, forgetting in his haste that he had to open the can outside or leave the windows open all night to dispel the stench. For a half second more there was awkward silence, then Tino broke it, getting up himself to scrounge the cupboards.

"Good to know," he offered, opening the pantry door. "Do you know where the potatoes we bought last week are? I could boil some to go with the Surströmming…"

Berwald nodded and opened another cabinet, revealing the ten pound sack. Within minutes dinner was on, and Berwald and Tino focused on their respective thoughts. Berwald figured his roommate was taking it pretty well, considering he hadn't freaked out and demanded that the Swede sleep out on the lawn — something he'd been prepared to do, if asked. Then again, he couldn't exactly tell what was going on in Tino's head…

He really didn't have any concept. Berwald might have expected the Finn to be thinking about what he'd just blurted out, or planning his day tomorrow, or — worst case scenario — considering other real estate options in the area.

At that moment, however, Tino's traitorous mind was doing only one thing — looping Elizabeta's words on his mental soundtrack.

"_I've got a _feeling_, and you know I'm _never _wrong."_

The rest of the night for Tino was spent cursing her for everything even vaguely unpleasant that had ever happened to him, up to, and including, the birth of Feliks Łukasiewicz.

* * *

**A/N: **Forgot to mention it in my first author's note, but WHY WAS I NOT ALERTED TO THE FACT THAT THERE WAS A PARTY IN SWEDEN'S PANTS BEFORE NOW? I've missed out on the gay scene that is apparently EXPLODING, as well as high taxes and lung cancer. Darn. In case you, like me prior to last chapter, have not been accordingly invited to the party central, here's the link: http:(slash)(slash)www(dot)youtube(dot)com(slash)watch?v(equals)NBnoTZhBapo&feature(equals)youtube_gdata

Also, I want to send out my love to the people who gloomily stared at their phones for hours after the last chapter, waiting for Sweden's number to appear on their caller ID (and to those of you who got random calls as if on cue XD). It's okay guys, he didn't call me either. /sob **Rocketpunch** on TegakiE even drew a picture of those cold, callus pants pretending to call you, which I love: http:(slash)(slash)www(dot)unowen(dot)net(slash)tegaki(slash)dblog(dot)php?u(equals)74559&e(equals)1056123#7824571

Lastly, thanks, **DeepBlueInk. **You crushed my hopes and dreams by revealing the fact that Swedish Fish are actually made in CANADA (you _may_ get a fic out of this). I counter with one word: who?

Thanks for reading all the way to the end!

- C


	10. Little Stories

**A/N: **Hi there! Whether you're reading this for the first time or were re-directed after reading chapter... twelve (?), **I'd like to make it clear that these stories are not part of the main Treatment plot line.** They're side stories I've written out of gratitude to my fantastic reviewers and everyone else who had the patience to wait an extra week on chapter... eleven. Formerly, this was an author's note explaining the delay. Now it's bonus stories! Enjoy! :D

**WARNING(S):** Hungary shows up. The warning is inherent. Also, there could be some typos. It's 12:09 AM now.

* * *

**Story One: The Curious Case of Elizabeta Héderváry**  
_In Which Eliza is Arrested, Tino is Corrupted, and Eduard Gets Thoroughly Matched_

* * *

"I'm sorry, Tino. I just didn't know who else to call."

"That's okay. It's just… wow. The police station?"

Tino sat beside Elizabeta, the intensity of the fluorescents overhead washing all the color out of the space. The jail cell was clean but sterile, and Eliza really looked out of place. She was dressed for a casual outing, and her patterned skirt was quite at odds with the white-washed bench.

"Technically, I'm only sitting in a cell by request," she explained, gesturing from wall to wall. "It's smaller than I'd imagined in my fanfic. The police let me off with a fine and agreed that I can have this expunged in the future. Still…"

She trailed off, and Tino nodded sympathetically.

"I know. It must be humiliating."

"Exactly!" Eliza agreed, ruffling her long hair in frustration. "My reputation as the best covert profiler on campus, and my matchmaking business, have been _destroyed!_"

Tino gave her a blank look. "_What?"_

"Didn't the desk sergeant tell you what they picked me up for?"

"Yes... dine-and-dashing?"

"What? _Seriously?_ Agh, the horrors of being in the wrong place at the wrong time," Eliza moaned, looking even _more_ offended. "_Of course_ I didn't eat and run! I had dinner in my apartment— but it's not like I could provide an alibi, or any evidence."

"Unless you vomit on them," Tino supplied helpfully. Elizabeta just smiled and patted his head.

"How you're still single is beyond me. Oh, _wait_, no it's not."

The Finn rolled his eyes and cut her off before she could start in on his love life, as she was often wont to do. "Anyway, if not skipping out on restaurant tabs, what _did_ you think you'd been 'detained' for?"

Elizabeta paused. She smiled. She pulled Tino closer on the bench, and wrapped her arm around his waist a little _too_ amicably.

"Tino, my friend, you have a lot of potential," she said. "So I'm going to give you the inside track on how to get _great_ hands-on psychology practice."

He gave her a dubious look. "I don't know if I like where this is going."

"You can decide later," Elizabeta assured, brushing back her disheveled bangs with a grin. "First, let me tell you a wonderful story…"

* * *

"…about fish?"

"It's all she talked about. My brother likes fish, _I_ like fish— but a hot-blooded man can only talk about fish for so long."

It was two days before Eliza's unfortunate collision with bad karma, and it found her having coffee with an Icelandic man. Barely out of adolescence, he was fit and easy on the eyes, but had all the expressive power of a refrigerated brick. She was at work as his matchmaker under the alias of 'Hungary' (painfully unoriginal in her estimation, but it made for amusing puns) and, following her lead, her impassive guest had refused to be called anything but 'Iceland'. They were on Step Two of her patent-pending SureMatch™ process, the step in which he recounted all his dates in recent memory for her analysis. They'd finally reached the previous week, where the man's account ended after an unsuccessful dinner with a cheerful but somewhat single-minded island girl.

"I'm sure she meant well," Eliza assured, giving the pale man a conciliatory pat on the hand, "but even if smoked salmon _is_ the extent of her thoughts, there are plenty more fish in the sea."

'Iceland' just stared at her, and she rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palm. "...okay, that was bad. Let's just pretend I never said that and get down to business."

She leaned forward, chin braced on laced fingers, and donned a very serious expression indeed. "After getting the full account of your love life, all I can conclude is this: you're going too far outside the box when it comes to romance."

"There's a box now?" the man asked, sipping his coffee with subdued exasperation. "I knew there was a small, diapered cherub who shot people with heart-shaped arrows, and I knew there was eHarmony, but I didn't know there was a _box_."

"Ooh, sarcasm? Well, I can work with that. Yes, there is a _box_. There are several boxes. But the one you need to be focused on is the one you're too far outside of when it comes to partners."

"How so?" he asked. She shrugged and began laying out different packets of sugar and artificial sweetener on the table in front of her, pointing to each one as she spoke.

"Let's go over the big figures so far. Cute Taiwanese girl who used text messaging and karaoke as her sole means of communication? You broke it off on date three. Mysterious Egyptian man you met through eBay? You broke it off on _chat_ three. Sunny… Seychelles-ian, I guess, who had a passionate interest in sea life, but mostly eating it? You didn't let her get past three _drinks_. Aside from the eerie connection between you and the number three, what do you notice?"

"Romantic failure?" 'Iceland' suggested, not entirely sarcastic. Eliza just shook her head, swiped all the sweetener packets into her hand, and tossed them back into the container from whence they came.

"You have an extraordinary knack for dating bizarre people. You have not _once_ managed to find someone pleasantly average. It's great to date interesting and quirky people, but it takes a special kind of person to fall in love with them."

From her container of various packets, she retrieved a slate blue one, simply labeled 'sugar', and waved it under her inexpressive counterpart's nose.

"You need to find this guy. 'Mr. Normal', who also moonlights under the pseudonym 'Mr. Right'. He'll be hard working, intelligent, dependable— and exceptional in how _unexceptional_ he is."

"He?" 'Iceland' repeated, reaching an expressive peak by raising his eyebrows. Eliza coughed.

"Well, I suppose it could be _Ms_. Normal… but I did have someone in mind, if you're interested."

* * *

"Eduard? You had _Eduard_ in mind? Eliza, you know he's—"

"Utterly terrified of romance? Yes, that I do. I also know, having met him through you, that he's perfectly normal, and perfectly available. Now let me get on with my story."

Tino sunk his head into his hands. "Fine."

* * *

"Me? You had _me _in mind? Eliza, you that I'm—"

"Utterly terrified of romance? Yes, that I do. I also know, having met you through Tino, that you're a perfectly nice guy _and_ currently unattached. Come on, you should at least give him a chance!"

Eduard sighed, leaning heavily on the edge of his neatly organized desk, wondering how in God's name Tino's extremely questionable friend had managed to turn up in his office on a day like this. And with the intent of sending him on a blind date! The hubris! It was _unacceptable!_

Well, it would've been if Eduard hadn't spent the previous night eating Chinese take-out alone and generally wallowing in self-pity.

"Does 'he' have a name?" the Estonian asked, foregoing the real question he'd wanted to pose, which was more along the lines of 'why me?'. Eliza forced a laugh and slapped the surface of his desk good-naturedly.

"It wouldn't be a blind date if I— I mean _you,_ knew his real name!"

"Yes, it would be— it just wouldn't be a blind date with the level of _awkward_ you generally provide," Eduard corrected, swiveling in his seat to look out his office window. "Eliza, I just don't know. I'm not good at being lovey-dovey and showing off my affection. Even if I do hit it off with this guy – and I'm not even going to start on why it always seems to be _guys_ you bring me – he's probably not going to take to someone who comes off as so… boring."

Elizabeta just smiled. "No. Actually, you'll be a perfect fit. As long as you, you know, don't have any deep-seated need to be showered with love… or facial expressions."

Eduard took off his glasses, took a long moment to clean them and generally contemplate his life, and then put them back on again.

"I must hate myself," he concluded, folding his hands and closing his eyes. The woman opposite him perked right up.

"So you'll give 'Iceland' a try?"

"…please don't tell me why my date is named after a country."

"It's just a codename."

"You can stop talking any time now."

* * *

"Oh my God," Tino whispered, looking more stricken by the minute. "You actually got Eduard to go on a date with this random guy?"

"He wasn't a_ random guy_, but yes, I did succeed in setting up their date," Elizabeta said, leaning back into the cell wall. Tino shook his head.

"Alright, that's a feat all on its own, but would you mind telling me how all this is connected to your fateful run-in with the police?"

"Well, it's certainly one thing to hear later how a date went, but it's… quite another to observe the date taking place, if you get what I mean."

Tino's eyes flew wide and he went sympathetically crimson on Eduard's behalf. "You _spied_ on them? _Elizabeta!"_

"'Spied' is such a strong word," Eliza said, waving her hand breezily. "I observed their date for the purpose of analysis and education when I worked with 'Iceland' later, is all!"

"Wow. Please tell me I don't know you."

"Of course you know me, dear. You were prepared to pay my bail the moment I called from the precinct. Now hush, there's more to tell."

* * *

It was a lovely night. The heavy rain that had made commuting to campus for the town's college students hell all that week had let up, leaving behind an evening of perfect weather. It was as if the gods themselves were willing to make an exception for the two men destined to meet for dinner, and had held back the torrents upon their request. That, or Elizabeta had put the fear of _her_ into the aforementioned gods, and they didn't have the rocks to try and cross her.

The latter was more likely.

Regardless of how the weather came to be perfect, it was, and Eliza was glad. Hiding in bushes was already problematic without also having to conceal an umbrella or rain poncho. The hedge she was perched in was also perfect, with solid, smooth branches for seating and dense leaf growth. Only her binoculars poked out, trained on Eduard and his blind date as they ordered drinks and began trying to make small talk.

At first, things looked grim. She took note of this in a spiral that would later inspire Tino to buy the infamous little black book, scribbling in hurried abbreviations exact descriptions of the looks on both men's faces (not much to report). Then, slowly…

…well, slowly, Eduard stopped fidgeting. And 'Iceland' stopped taking compulsive sips of his drink every three seconds. Though the change wouldn't have been noticeable to most people, the duo's body language loosened up, and they began to really _see_ each other.

Elizabeta smirked and wrote that down too, taking a moment to scrutinize her notes between sneaking peaks as the two men ordered dessert. She summarized what she'd observed, made notes on what relationship progression could be forecast based on this evening alone, and…

…heard three men shouting curses not too far away from her.

What had been intended as a glamorous exodus from the shrubbery turned into an all-out tumble and roll as she pushed herself free of the plants she'd been hiding in, fully intending to ask what was going on. After all, it was interrupting a very important mission.

She rolled out right onto the feet of an extremely annoyed police officer.

There was a beat of silence as the other men, who turned out to be a restaurant owner and another cop, caught up to him. Eliza really hadn't expected to roll onto the feet of the law and so she lay, stunned, on the pavement as he looked down at her.

"Think you're clever, do you?" the officer asked, pulling his cuffs off his belt. "Hiding in the bushes? Amateur."

"What?" Eliza hissed, personally affronted. She was hauled up and cuffed, surrounded by annoyed laughter.

"Really, you're no good at this if you thought you could crouch by the side of the road and just have us pass by."

"I wasn't doing anything illegal!" she protested, fighting against her restraints as she tried to indicate the binoculars around her neck. "I was bird watching!"

"Yeah, sure. A likely story."

In a restaurant down the street, piles of empty plates sat on a table unpaid for as a woman roughly similar to Elizabeta in appearance ran home. In a restaurant directly in front of the struggling woman and her unamused captors, Eduard asks his date, who will forever remain anonymous to Eliza, if he'd like to accompany him home for coffee. His date accepts, and by the time they pay and leave Elizabeta has been spirited off to the local police department.

* * *

"And the moral of the story is…?"

"Don't make a hedge do a surveillance van's job?"

Eliza sighed and shook her head, dripping disappointment. "I knew I shouldn't have asked you. Sometimes you just have to _tell._ The moral of the story… well, okay, the _outcome_ was that I was able to put together comprehensive profiles on both Eduard and his anonymous beau, track the gradual fluctuations in their interactions, and analyze all that to reach a satisfactory conclusion on each of their responses to addressing someone theoretically compatible!"

Tino took a moment to switch his mind over from 'sympathetic friend' to 'hardened academic'. "So you're saying that your _stalking_ is actually a way of not only generating side income through matchmaking services, but also furthering your field experience and psychology skills through real-world observation and analysis?"

"Exactly," Eliza confirmed, though she did contradict him on one point. She prodded his chest with her forefinger, her gaze steeled.

"But, repeat after me: It's not stalking."

"It's not stalking?"

"It's _not_ stalking."

"It's not stalking…"

"_It's not stalking."_

"It's not stalking!"

And suddenly, a whole world of possibilities bloomed before Tino's eyes. Elizabeta moved her conspiratorial arm up to his shoulders and gave him a firm squeeze.

"Now my friend, you have only to pick a patient."

* * *

**Story Two: Destroyer's Remorse**  
_In Which Berwald Feels Sudden, Belated Guilt Over Murdering Defenseless Furniture_

* * *

Berwald really didn't know why he was doing it. He'd felt silly even as he stood in line to buy the lumber and hardware. It was pointless, he'd get over it, it wasn't like there was anything _he_ had to apologize for…

…but, he realized as he finished sanding what was undeniably a spring-loaded, adjustable-backed kitchen chair, he _did_ want to apologize. To the chair.

Specifically, the chair he'd thrown through Denmark's window more than a month ago. He had no idea what had happened to it beyond his completely explicable burst of rage, and (though he would never admit it) he'd been worried about it. That worry was what had driven him to buy the wood, small parts and finish needed to perfectly reconstruct the lost piece of furniture.

Seeing it completed two hours later left Berwald not quite knowing what to do with himself, or the chair. He could certainly put it to use in the house (neither he nor Tino had the furniture to match the square footage, though he was working on that) but somehow that just didn't feel right.

"Olive branch," came a voice from the doorway. The Swede turned to find Tino leaning there, holding his ever-present cup of hot chocolate and smiling just enough to look persuasive.

"What d'y'mean b'that?" Berwald asked.

"Give it to Denmark," Tino elaborated, sipping his drink slowly as to gauge his roommate's reaction. "Extend the olive branch, as it were. You guys have apparently been at each others' throats forever— isn't it time you give it a rest?"

Berwald frowned severely, and while a cold sweat started on the back of Tino's neck his outward expression didn't flicker.

"I jus' don't g't why…" the man mumbled, testing the back of the chair as he trailed off. Tino prompted him.

"Why…?"

The tall man ducked his head, half embarrassed and half bitter. "Don't g't why_ I_ 'ave t'be th'one who 'ppoligizes."

Tino, who'd been expecting something earth-shattering (or at least _mature_) could bring himself to do nothing more than roll his eyes. "Oh my G— It doesn't matter who _started it_, what's important is that one of you has to have the gravitas to _end it_. That could be you."

Berwald scratched the back of his neck apprehensively. "Dunno…"

Tino just gave him a _look_. _"Su-san."_

Ten minutes later Berwald was driving to the _Danmarken Godser _in Antonio's borrowed tomato truck, his newborn kitchen chair strapped securely in the back. As Tino watched taillights fading into the semi-dark of twilight, he briefly reflected that Feliks might've been right— he might 'totally' have Berwald wrapped around his finger.

With a flush, he immediately banished the thought and erased all mental evidence that it had ever existed.

* * *

Berwald sat in the driver's seat and considered three options: drive-by, stealth maneuver, or honor thy (not really) wife.

Drive-by was seductive in its irony and simplicity. He'd run by Denmark's living room, chuck the chair in the same window the original had been unceremoniously thrown out of, and then sprint for deep shadow and cover of night.

Stealth maneuver was his second-best option. It wasn't as chaotic (read,_ fun_) as the first option, but it did forgo awkward apologies he didn't feel like making. He'd sneak up to the front porch, silently place the chair on the welcome mat, ring the doorbell, and basically beat the same hasty retreat he had planned in option one.

He really didn't like option three. Tino would like option three (thus the name that he would _never_ hear about, under pain of death), but Berwald _really_ didn't like option three. Basically, he'd approach the front stoop with his chair, ring the bell, and wait for the door to be answered by Denmark. At that point he would be stoic and genteel, make apologies without expecting anything in return, and hand over the chair with grace and dignity. He would return to the truck, crank up, and return home to a (hopefully) loaded table and a comfy chair.

He sat and considered his options for a moment, as well as what kind of man he was. Option three was the choice of a great man. Option one was a coward's.

He was an okay guy, he decided.

When Denmark finally got around to answering the doorbell, he found a chair but no Swede. He kind of squinted at the new arrival, slurring as he yelled back over his shoulder into the house.

"Hey, Nor? I think our deck had a baby."


	11. Admission, Denial

**EDIT: Okay, so when I deleted the author's note that was chapter ten to post this, it apparently started something funky with the review process and- ay! It's annoying, but I'm having to post this as chapter eleven from my iPod. Sorry for the extra email (I know that's annoying), and hopefully this fixes the bugs!**

**A/N: **Hey, look, the author delivers! I really cannot tell you how much I appreciate your patience, or how cheered I was by the many reviews entailing not-so-fun deaths for my anonymous thief. Really, just— thanks.

And hum. Is anyone else as irritated by this site now turning double hyphens (- - sans spaces) into single hyphens (-) as I am? The past chapters where I've separated thoughts with double hyphens are all running together now. It's annoying. /rant

Anyway, just wanted to say a couple more things:

1.) I totally understand those of you going, "Hmmm, I don't know if I like hearing 'Su-san' in this fic." I usually make a point of not using Japanese or Japanese honorifics in my fics (even if Japan_ himself _is speaking, 'cause you really don't hear that many English-speaking Japanese people running around calling people '-san' and '-kun' in RL), but 'Su-san' is such an ingrained part of fandom it didn't feel right for me _not_ to try my hand at working it in. I don't plan to use it excessively (it won't be replacing 'Berwald' anytime soon), just in those instances where a wheedling housewife might use a well-stressed, "_Honey? Please?"_. Because, I dunno, that's how it sounds in my headcanon (lol).

2.) I had an epiphany recently. After reading a bunch of reviews with ideas that had me loling and saying, "Man, I wish that was in here!" I realized that, hey, I'm the author, and that _can_ be in here! Thus, this chapter was inspired in a large part by your suggestions! Keep leaving me thoughts on what you'd like to see in future chapters, and, if I think I can use it, your idea might pop up! :D Thanks!

3.) I _also_ realized recently what else was in my stolen writing notebook. Um, the outline for this story.

...

Yeah. So I'm flying blind right now — I'll draw up a new one ASAP — but for the moment I'll have to ask you to forgive any continuity errors until I can go back and edit for them. Speaking of edits, it's ten o'clock at night here, so I'm gonna stop yammering (and probably making typos) and let you read!

**WARNING(S):** Hungary's wily ways, a tad bit of mutual angst, and an epic fail on Greece's part at reading Japanese.

* * *

"Tino Väinämöinen. I cannot believe you went so far."

"And you think I can? I crossed the line with my manhood, and I'm still scared that maybe it didn't come back in one piece."

Tino and Elizabeta sat in his room opposite each other, materials for their classes strewn over every available surface. They'd been working on homework for several hours, but somehow the topic of conversation had strayed from the development of cognitive psychology to his cross-dressing escapade the previous night.

"Having any powerfully strong cravings for chocolate and/or children?" the Hungarian enquired, cocking an eyebrow at Tino sarcastically.

"Not unless the children come covered in chocolate and I get to eat the little rascals."

"Ah, there's the Tino I know and love," Elizabeta cooed, patting him on the head fondly. "I swear you were a fire-breathing, man-eating dragon in a past life."

"That would be convenient right about now," the Finn replied, burying his head into arms crossed over the surface of his desk. "I could just go, 'Rawr! Go date Berwald!', and small herds of men would run into his arms."

Elizabeta giggled a bit and looked down on Tino with a satisfied smile. He frowned into the crook of his elbow, both embarrassed and annoyed.

"'Liza, get that smirk off your face and don't you dare say, 'I told you so'," he grumbled. "There was no way I could have known he was gay."

She rolled her eyes. "If you'd just called around you could have found out in _three _sec—"

"Stop! I refuse to believe I sacrificed my masculinity for lack of research!" Tino cut in, raising one hand in a 'halt' gesture towards his favourite co-conspirator. "I also can't believe _you _didn't tell me, so called 'best friend'."

"You can't say I didn't try," she asserted. "You just didn't want to listen to my _subtle_ implications because they involved you. And, anyway, it was my duty as a best friend to watch your plans crash and burn. Because I love you, you know."

"_Thanks,"_ Tino muttered, tone dripping sarcasm. "I'm just glad no one saw me in that getup... I would've never lived it down."

At this Elizabeta got that smirky look again, and Tino sank further into his desk, feeling like a good moan of 'why, God, why?' was in order.

"How many cell phone pictures did Feliks take when I wasn't looking?"

"Just the one."

"How bad is it?"

Elizabeta held up her phone. Tino was caught with his wig off but everything else on, shot at such an angle that his entire outfit — from blouse to heels — was in the frame. His gaze was focused on something else entirely, a classic mark of clandestine photography, and no makeup had been applied to his face yet.

In other words, he looked exactly like he usually did — except wearing fake boobs and pantyhose.

"Eliza, prepare yourself to perform the other sacred duty of a best friend -" Tino deadpanned, eyes lifeless, "- provide me a shoulder to cry on."

"I'll keep it warm for you," she said gravely, pulling her sweater more tightly around her. Trying to resist the urge to lock himself in his closet and never come out again, Tino asked the next inevitable question:

"How'd you get the picture?"

"Well..." Elizabeta began, "Feliks sent it to Toris, who sent it to Raivis, who sent it to your friend Eduard, whose phone was commandeered by Alfred, who sent it to his entire contact list, which included Kiku, who—to repay me for a kindness I'd done him six weeks ago—sent it to me."

Tino groaned.

"So God and everybody has seen it?"

"Everybody but Berwald Oxenstierna, apparently."

"Why do I doubt that?"

"Because you know how close Kiku is to Heracles Karpusi, and how often Sadiq Adnan steals his cell phone to piss him off."

"_And_ how fast word spreads in 'the gang'," Tino finished, feeling like he was about to start bawling. "As if being called his 'wife' wasn't bad enough... my life is over..."

Tino visibly sank in on himself, mortification acting as a ten ton weight on his small shoulders. Eliza ended up rolling her eyes again and pulling the forlorn Finn out of his swivel chair and into her arms.

"Tino, if everybody's life ended the moment they did something stupid in college, global overpopulation would _not _be an issue," she soothed, giving him a bracing shake. "Just get up, go outside, and assure everyone who asks that it was the most psychotic dare ever proposed to you while you were _completely_ off your face."

"Yes ma'am," the Finn grumbled, sitting up properly on the bed. "Now, are we going to go over what we'll be discussing in tomorrow's study groups on the development of modern psychology, or do you want to call it an afternoon?"

"Afternoon," Eliza groaned, flopping back. "I would much rather forget all about it and take a nap in your _amazing_ house, here, or on your _amazing_ couch."

"Yeah… Berwald made that," Tino remarked, eyes glazing over as they explored the well-charted terrain of his bedroom ceiling. Elizabeta raised a brow, then rolled on her side until she was facing him and gave him an extremely serious look. Tino made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat and jumped up from the bed, throwing his hands in the air.

"_No_, I am not going to marry him over _furniture!"_

"Hey, no one said anything about marriage — you jumped to that conclusion on your own."

"Eliza- you- _argh!"_

The laughing Hungarian followed the fuming Finn as he threw open the door to his room and huffed down the stairs to the kitchen, intending to grab one of the many boxes of Salmiakki he hoarded and move their bickering to the living room sofa. He only got about halfway through his plan, because, as he headed for the couch, salty liquorices in hand, he found Berwald already there, glaring down at his phone with the intensity of a thousand white hot suns.

There was little doubt as to what he was looking at, but while Tino interpreted his glare at the picture to mean, 'how sad and disgusting', Elizabeta more accurately translated it to, 'eww, girly bits'. Her gaydar was just that well tuned.

Berwald looked up from his phone, finally noticing they'd walked into the room. His gaze switched between the picture and Tino, a slight frown making his expression look all the more severe. The smaller man reddened under the intense look, the embarrassment that had been vanquished by Eliza's furniture-inspired matchmaking returning full force.

"That was the most psychotic dare ever proposed to me while I was _completely_ off my face," he recited, one big, embarrassed blush. "And I'll kill you if you send it to anyone else."

That was Berwald's first death threat from Tino. It must have been the gang's bad influence that made him think it was cute. The blush helped.

"Figur'd," the Swede offered, pressing some buttons on his phone before putting it away. "S'college, after all."

Apparently Tino was the only one who hadn't gotten the memo: what happens in college, stays in college — unless you commit a felony, at which point what happens in college makes you look _really bad_ when you're forty and get pulled over for speeding.

Disgusted with the world, Tino tossed himself down on the sofa next to his roommate and gestured for Elizabeta to join them, almost having forgotten introductions altogether.

"Berwald, this is Elizabeta; Elizabeta, Berwald."

"Oh, so this is the famous 'Su-san'," Eliza said, pretending she knew _nothing _as she offered the man her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Tino talks about you all the time."

"Th't so?" Berwald asked, shaking the offered hand and glancing at Tino out of the corner of his eye. The Hungarian woman just laughed and nodded, inwardly noting the Swede's slight flush as she ignored Tino's ultimate glare of death.

"Anyway," he drawled, oh-so-subtly changing the subject, "what were you up to, Berwald?"

The pensive man gestured towards the television. Muted, the weather channel was detailing what looked to be one of the most severe winter storms in recent memory, due to blow into their area around six o' clock. Tino's jaw dropped — there'd barely been any sign of snow until a couple days ago, and now they were forecasting _feet?_ Elizabeta stood from where she'd been perched on the arm of the sofa and moved to the window. Drawing back the drapes, she revealed that fat snowflakes were beginning to fall, even as the sun shone brightly from within a cold sky.

"That's not good…" she mumbled, recalling that she and Tino had chosen to walk to his home because the weather had been so nice earlier.

"Not at all…" Tino agreed, joining her at the sill to look out on the street. The roads were only starting to get slick — the snow was still melting on contact, but that wouldn't last for long; there was no way he could feel comfortable sending her out in that.

"Looks like I'm going to have to catch the bus," she mused, turning to face back into the room as Berwald took the mute off the TV.

"_Bus runs between Balaton Street and Mariazell Boulevard have been cancelled in anticipation of the heavy snowfall this evening, and look to remain suspended for the immediate future as wind gusts..."_

The Hungarian woman threw her hands up and returned to the couch.

"Well, that plan can just go to hell."

Berwald then took his turn at the window, startling the life out of Tino, who hadn't heard him get up. He seemed to be thoroughly studying each snowflake as it went by, and, by the time he turned back to Elizabeta, she was talking to Tino about what could only turn into a disastrous sleepover, fraught with saucy innuendo and embarrassing 'misunderstandings'.

"F'y'want, I can try'n take y'home," the Swede offered, motioning vaguely to the front door, next to which, on a peg, the keys to his motorbike hung. Eliza's eyes lit up, while Tino's widened in horror.

"I don't know if that's a good idea -"

"Do you mind? That would be great!"

"Don't m'nd," Berwald confirmed, grabbing his coat from the back of a chair and shrugging into it. "Whenev'r y're ready."

"Cool! Thanks _so _much!" Elizabeta called over her shoulder as she headed for the stairs. "Just let me get my stuff from Tino's room!"

She disappeared up the staircase, leaving the Swedish man and the Finn — currently terrified for her life — in the dust. Tino immediately rounded on Berwald, weighed down with worry.

"Are you sure about this? It's really starting to come down out there…"

The taller man looked down at him, expression unreadable, and then shrugged noncommittally.

"S'okay," he offered, pulling on a pair of leather riding gloves. "Th'roads should still b'manag'ble."

"Just- be careful," Tino insisted, not looking anywhere near comforted, but not looking like he was about to make a run for Berwald's keys, either. "Make sure to grab the helmet on your way out."

Berwald nodded, then paused as if he was about to add something, but cut himself off as Elizabeta approached, a sweet look on her face.

"I'm sorry boys; am I _interrupting_ something?"

"_No,"_ Tino hissed, ears pinking at her racy tone, which clearly implied that she _wanted_ to be interrupting something. Berwald looked lost, but didn't try for clarification, just opened the front door and let some snowflakes dance at his feet as Eliza adjusted her scarf.

"From what I hear, riding with you will be fun!" she enthused, exiting the house with a spring in her step. "Let's get a move on!"

Berwald followed, looking — if possible — more confused, only pausing to spare Tino a glance as he closed the door. The blond was obviously worried, but he hadn't offered anything earlier to indicate _who__,_exactly, he was so anxious for.

Briefly, Berwald wondered if it was selfish to hope it was him.

Shaking his head, he followed Elizabeta to his bike, and with a solid kick brought the beast roaring into life.

* * *

"Damn! That was amazing! I have no idea why Tino doesn't ride with you everywhere!"

"Th'nk he's scar'd. I go kinda fast."

"Understatement — but that's the best part!"

Elizabeta, hair wind-tossed and eyes alight with amusement, hopped off the back of Berwald's motorbike as the man let it idle. She took off her helmet and handed it to him, not terribly surprised when he chose to stow it rather than put it on.

"Thanks again for dropping me off," she said, pulling the strap of her messenger bag back over her shoulder. "Tino must be _terribly_ worried."

"Mhm," was all Berwald offered, trying not to get his hopes up. He revved his bike, preoccupied with something but not about to share. Eliza smirked, bracing herself against the cold as she prepared for a nice, long_ talk_.

"So, how _are _things between you and everyone's favorite Finn?" she prodded, not really bothering with subtlety. "Getting well situated in your cozy new home?"

"Mm. Adjustin'." Berwald shifted on his bike, clenching and unclenching his large hands around the handlebars. He obviously hadn't planned on sitting out in the cold making small talk with Tino's… friend? _Girl_friend? He didn't know.

And that definitely wasn't bugging him. _Definitely._

"You look like you want to say something, Berwald," Elizabeta said, tone brooking no argument. "Spit it out."

Berwald was used to direct people. In the gang alone, Gilbert and Sadiq were enough to make up for all the cunning and naïveté that Francis and Feli liberally dished out. Still, he hadn't banked on the first person to force him into speaking being Tino's previously reserved… guest? He took a deep breath. Then another.

"S'just… are you an'Tino… t'geth'r…?"

There was a beat of silence, and then Elizabeta burst out laughing.

"Oh! _Oh!_ Oh, that's _hilarious!"_

Berwald frowned a little, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. "Well…?"

"No, it's not like that," the Hungarian assured, giving him a good-humored slap on the arm. "Tino is absolutely, positively, not dating me — or anybody else for that matter. He is 100% date free. Available. For you."

The Swede went blank. "_What?"_

"Oh, _riiiight_," Eliza retorted, rolling her eyes. "Those bushes must be pretty sizeable — y'know, the ones you've been beating around with Tino."

Berwald would've objected, but Elizabeta didn't give him the chance. She took a step forward, grabbing the lapels of his coat and giving him a shake.

"It's so _blindingly_ obvious! I've seen the way you look at him!" she insisted. "You need to make a move before he resigns himself to a life of crazy cat-lady spinsterhood!"

Berwald repeated his eloquent 'what' from earlier, but this time on his face in an expression that would've sent Tino running for the hills. Shaking her head, Eliza boosted herself back up onto the Swede's bike, this time sitting sidesaddle, and tossed a familiar arm around his shoulder.

"Let me tell you a little something about my dear friend Tino," she began, sweeping her free hand across the space in front of them like a storyteller setting the scene, "he's bad with relationships. Like, amazingly bad. As in, the last time he admitted he had a crush on someone was in _sixth grade_. I swear, you'd think 'denial' was a river in Finland.

"That being said," she continued," he's absolutely covered up with stalk- err, suitors, female _and_ male. He just doesn't realize it."

"Th't so?" Berwald asked, fighting discomfort. Unlike Antonio, Elizabeta didn't seem willing to let him pretend that he had no interest. Hell, if he hadn't had an interest before, he got the feeling he would have had one when this woman was done with him. She was going to have him pursue Tino, even if she had to personally grab him by the ears and drag him in the little Finn's wake. The mental image was hilarious, but Berwald managed a serious expression (because _that_ took so much effort) as Eliza nodded, squeezing his shoulders encouragingly.

"It certainly is _so_. Which means two things: one, you're covered up with competition, and two, on the bright side, none of that competition has half a chance with Tino, because none of them are willing to make the first move."

"An' I am," Berwald concluded, slipping his glasses off to rub the bridge of his nose. Eliza smiled. It was at that point the Swede realized he'd finally — inadvertently — at least admitted to having an _interest_ in the Finn. He squeezed his eyes shut, internally bemoaning his recent foul-ups when it came to keeping secrets. It was like even _he_ was against him.

"I think so," the Hungarian woman agreed, giving his knee a comforting pat. "And trust me, I would do anything to see you two together…"

The way she said the last part made Berwald think she didn't just mean catching glimpses of them walking together in the park. He set that aside as she stood, brushed accumulated snowflakes out of her lap, and turned to face him head-on.

"So, having provided you with information on how Tino has handled relationships _and_ what his situation is, I'm sure you'll want to know whether or not your efforts will be in vain."

This brought their conversation back around to the point. Eliza could talk up 'taking the first step' and him 'having the best chance' all she wanted, but it wouldn't count for anything if the Swede's burgeoning affection was not returned. It would just be a punch in the gut. The woman smiled and held out her hand again for him to shake.

"He's got the shape of it," she said, never once breaking eye contact with Berwald. "Give him until Christmas. Not to say you won't have to put some work into it, but I see you two doing the couple thing around then."

"Then… y'mean…"

"Yup. I can assure you that, by the New Year, if you're willing to make a move, Tino will fall in love with you," she guaranteed, hand still extended. "He's already starting to lose his balance; he just hasn't realized it yet. And you can count on me to make all the embarrassing comments and all the saucy implications necessary to bulldoze his denial. This will work — you just have to be willing to take a chance."

Berwald looked down at her hand, the fingertips starting to color from the cold air she'd exposed them to, obviously not wanting to shake with a gloved hand. This could go so wrong… so terribly, completely, _utterly_ wrong… He'd had relationships fall apart in the past, and he definitely wasn't hunting heartbreak. But…

But he wanted to take a chance — to take a chance with Tino.

With all the regality of a monarch, he slipped the leather glove off his right hand and shook Elizabeta's, sealing his fate. Her smile was bright and reassuring, and she held his hand for a second longer afterwards, giving it a good squeeze.

"Good choice," she said. "Now get home to your 'wife'."

* * *

"Finally! I thought you and Eliza had crashed somewhere!"

Tino ushered his roommate inside, shutting the door on what was rapidly growing into a miniature blizzard. The wind howled along the eaves of their house, making the Swede just that much more thankful to have parked his bike and gotten inside. He shook snow out of his hair and coat, hanging up the latter in the entryway so it could drip on the tile, not the living room carpet.

"I was just about to fix some hot cocoa," Tino said, turning back towards the kitchen. "I'll make you a cup."

He flipped on the lights, illuminating the slate countertops and cheery knickknacks that made the kitchen home, calling back over his shoulder as he did. "It isn't very far to Eliza's house. What took you so long? Were the roads that bad?"

Berwald followed, trying to come up with something to say other than, 'I was selling my soul to your personal matchmaker for the dubious promise of Christmas smoochies', but was saved from an awkward response by the prompt failure of the kitchen lights. And every other fixture in the house. The TV in the living room blinked out, the lights on the appliances faded, and there was a soft 'click' as the heater abruptly cut off. The baby blizzard had officially knocked out the power.

"Great_,"_ Tino muttered, thumping the front of the electric stove, which obviously wasn't going to be supplying hot chocolate for a while, "just what we need."

The Finn seemed to be in a sour mood for some reason, possibly because he'd been worrying himself to death earlier, and possibly because he looked like he'd only recently gotten out of the shower, and his still-damp hair wasn't helping with the whole 'it's cold as all hell and the heater just resigned' situation. Deciding that talking wasn't going to be of any help to the Finn, Berwald headed back towards the front door, wondering why he'd taken his jacket off at all. Tino looked alarmed and grabbed his elbow.

"Hey, you don't need to run out into the storm over cocoa! I'm sure we can make do without it."

Berwald thrilled at Tino's insistent touch, but shook his head, thinking that his roommate had to be _seriously_ out of it if he thought the pragmatic Swede would wander out into the snow in pursuit of hot chocolate. He pushed open the door against the wind, and, without so much as a 'how d'y'do', he slammed into the blizzard. Tino watched through the windows by the door, dumbstruck, as Berwald made a beeline for the garage. He stayed in there for around a minute, but just as Tino was about to pull on his snow boots and go after him, he reappeared, bent half-over and loaded down with a hefty bundle of firewood.

Tino did an instant replay of not five minutes earlier, rushing to the door to admit his Swedish counterpart with a wave of worried Finnish words, none of which could be strung together to make any kind of sense. Instead of pausing in the doorway this time, Berwald headed for the living room, where he wasted no time in unloading his burden next to the fireplace. Within minutes his large hands had kindled a blaze in the hearth, one that warmed the room and did well to heat the water in their cast-iron kettle, which the Swede had jury-rigged to hang above it.

"Thank you," Tino said, a warm smile just curling the corners of his mouth. "You didn't have to go to the trouble."

"Mn, no, would've had t'event'lly," Berwald disagreed, laying his sopping coat in front of the hearth to dry off a little. "Needed th'wood, needed th'f're."

As if to punctuate the man's point, there came a great howling around the eaves of the house, a sound not unlike the roar of some great beast. Tino didn't jump — he was more than used to big snow storms — but he definitely understood what Berwald meant. Just judging by the sound of the gusts, the baby blizzard was getting fierce. Without any kind of heat they would've been in dire straits. They would've had to resort to other means of keeping warm. Like cuddling.

No, Tino decided, he hadn't just thought that last part. Nope, nuh-uh, that would promptly be stricken from his internal memory banks. His train of thought pushed on, reminding him dutifully that he needed to find some candles or they would be making very dangerous treks to the bathroom in the dark later. The light was already fading to the point where a candle would be a comfort. After enlisting Berwald in his search he set off for the hall closet, instantly immersing himself in sorting through several half-packed boxes in the bottom. In this way, his mind was cleared of all thoughts, except whether the strange cheese slicer he'd just unearthed was his or Berwald's.

Elizabeta had been very right in assuming that Tino was 'already losing his balance'. She was wrong, however, in assuming that he wasn't aware of it. He was very aware of it.

And, he reasoned, if he was _proverbially _falling, there was nothing to say that he couldn't _proverbially _cling to the nearest solid object and scream about 'doctor-patient relationships' and 'ethics' at the top of his lungs. Sure, he wasn't _actually _a practicing psychologist, and, sure, Berwald wasn't _actually_ his patient, but _still. _There was the principle of the thing. He'd started observing Berwald under the pretense of 'treating him' with all the professionalism of an _actual _psychologist. Without the pretense…

Well, without the pretense he was just a creeper with a notebook. Or a glorified school boy suffering from the bizarre symptoms of his first crush. Tino honestly couldn't decide which was worse.

Eliza thought she was ready to 'bulldoze his denial', but she had no idea how tough that would be when it was all he assumed was left to prop up his dignity.

Besides, Tino thought as he cast aside a stray sock with undue force, just because he suddenly knew Berwald was gay didn't give him license to have all these random feelings pop up. The man could be taken. Just because Tino hadn't actually _seen_ the Swede on a date in all the time he'd been stalki— err, observing him didn't mean Berwald was 'sans boyfriend', or anything. he could be very much in love.

It took a great concentration of thought to ignore how his heart clenched at the thought. Then again, Tino was nothing if not determined. But…

But, a part of him seemed to point out, if Berwald was _otherwise engaged_, why did he call Tino his 'wife' on occasion (usually when it was most embarrassing)? Why did he take such pains to ensure that the Finn wasn't just comfortable, but happy too? What if there was something there? What if? If—

- if his id had shut the hell up, he probably would've found some candles by now. With an exasperated groan he gave up on the closet, standing and starting down the hallway so quickly that he almost ran smack into Berwald, who'd apparently actually _found_ candles.

"Whoa," the Swede rumbled, steadying him. "Y'okay?"

Tino looked up. Softened by candlelight and slight concern, Berwald's face looked almost nonthreatening — almost serene. His grip on Tino's shoulder was warm and solid, reassuring. It would be so easy to just ask, to just _try—_

"Peachy," he assured, swivelling so that he was at the man's side, not practically in his arms. "I see your search was more fruitful than mine!"

"Mhm," Berwald agreed, handing a few of the scrounged candles to his roommate while a frown brought slight creases just between his eyes. He couldn't have known about Tino's supposed 'id issues', but it was easy enough to tell that something was off about him. He was just _too_ cheery. Berwald didn't get very far with that line of thought before Tino did what he did best — changed the subject.

"So, how are we sleeping tonight?" he asked, pivoting to face his roommate, hands clasped behind his back and an inquisitive smile on his face.

'Together' fought its way to the forefront of things Berwald wanted to say, but was quickly quashed by 'what?', which had fewer syllables and noticeably less awkward factor.

"Well," Tino explained, cocking his head to the side adorably, "it wouldn't be exactly smart for us to sleep in our rooms with no heat. You figure we should crash next to the fire?"

Oh. "Sound's f'ne."

Without another word, Tino rabbited off up the stairs, leaving Berwald holding the candle, wondering if the little Finn had been equipped with night vision, or something. That put him way ahead of Berwald, who was struggling to see by candlelight even with the aid of his glasses.

Which brought him back around to what _he'd _been thinking about during Tino's epic mental battle — all the reasons why Elizabeta could be absolutely, _positively_ wrong about Tino's supposed 'inclinations' towards him. For one thing, he could certainly do better than someone who was half-blind. And had an accent that was practically a speech impediment. And perpetually looked like he'd just killed someone. And—

—well, he could go on, but he wasn't manic depressive, as far as he knew. He was just anxious. _So anxious._ He felt like he'd entrusted Eliza with his life, and couldn't help but second guess her unwavering guarantee. What if, what if, _what if?_

What if he let this candle go out and Tino broke his neck coming down the stairs?

Ever protective, Berwald was snapped back into reality by the very thought, just in time. Tino came bounding back down the stairs, arms full of spare pillows and blankets, a bright smile pasted on his face.

"I don't know why," the Finn offered as they headed back to the living room, "but having the power go out always turns out to be a little fun!"

And it really might have been fun, if they each hadn't been doing the awkward two-step around their thoughts the rest of the evening. They shared a few cups of good cocoa out of the water Berwald had put on earlier, Tino making small talk about classes and exams until they both agreed it was time to bed down, but the atmosphere was inexplicably tense. It felt like the longest night of Berwald's life.

With a wide, careful space between them, the two laid down to rest, but got very little of it.

* * *

**OMAKE**

* * *

The wind the next morning was cold but calm, throwing up a little powder but otherwise leaving what had amounted to _feet_ of snow undisturbed. The first storm of the year had been enough to close down the college campus and keep their Russian neighbour inside, muttering something about 'General Winter' and being pleasantly antisocial. This was perfectly fine by Berwald, who was content to relax his day away.

By shoveling snow.

"Berwald, you really should take a break… build a snowman, or _something_…"

Tino sat on their front stoop, watching his — in Felix's words — 'studly' roommate move hefty loads of powder off the front walk, a fresh mug of fire-brewed cocoa warming his cupped hands. Berwald did rest a moment, pausing to wipe fog off his glasses where the cold air had condensed the heat coming off his body. He surveyed the amount of work he'd gotten done, which was quite a bit, before shrugging and taking up the shovel again.

"M'alright," he offered, resettling his glasses before burying the shovel deep in the snow. "S'steady work. Relaxin'."

"If you say so," Tino conceded, taking a sip of his drink. "It just seems like you never— _oh my God it's alive!"_

"Wha—?"

Tino shot up from his seat, nearly dropping the mug in his scramble to get up. Berwald looked alarmed and swept his eyes over the area, unconsciously placing himself so that Tino was behind him — but what had Tino jumping up was too close for that to be of any use.

"There!" the Finn exclaimed, gesturing to the fresh load of powder Berwald had been about to sling. "In the shovel!"

It took the Swede a moment to figure out what he was pointing to. He stared down at the snow. It yipped at him.

"Oh, Berwald, it's a puppy!"

Tino moved to crouch next to the shovel, extracting a wriggling white bundle of fur. What the Swede had considered just another clump of snow turned out to be an enthusiastic pup, which yipped excitedly and licked the corner of Tino's lips, to the Finn's amusement and delight. Berwald tried his best not to be jealous. He failed.

"Oh, where did you come from?" Tino asked the pup, smiling when all he got in response was another lick. "You're practically frozen!"

Berwald turned some more of the snow he'd started to move, revealing a makeshift den burrowed into the drift.

"S'smart," he remarked, running some of the dug-up powder between his gloved fingers. "Knows how t'stay warm, safe. S'there a coll'r?"

Tino parted the pup's fluffy fur, finding a somewhat ratty collar. He grabbed one of the attached tags and held it up to where there was better light.

"Well, there is a collar, but I don't know how much help it is," he said. "What language do you figure this is?"

Berwald crouched by his side, squinting through his glasses at the characters engraved on the tag's surface. "Dunno. Chinese, m'ybe?"

Working off that hunch, they trekked across the immense white plains of their yard and neighbouring Ivan's, arriving at the man's front door. No one really knew why — it was probably just an arrangement of mutual convenience — but Wang Yao, the cook at the bar where Tino worked, had shared the house with the imposing Russian for a couple of months now. This certainly made it convenient for their purposes, though there was always the unpleasant possibility that Ivan would be the one to answer the door, not Yao. Thankfully, they were spared such a situation.

"Oh, good morning, Berwald, Tino," a drowsy voice greeted, shortly followed by the robed figure of Wang Yao himself, who stretched and rubbed his eyes. "What's going on? Antonio doesn't expect me to come to the grill now, does he? There's no way I can get out without having Ivan shovel the drive, and he's sleeping very deeply at the moment, aru."

"No, I'm not here about work," Tino assured, holding up the pup. "We were just wondering if you could read this."

"If I could read the _dog_?" Yao asked sceptically, obviously not quite awake. Berwald shook his head and lifted the tag to where the much smaller man could read it, pointing out the characters engraved in it. The chef made an 'oh' face and scrutinized them, turning the tag this way and that to catch the light and make certain strokes stand out.

"These characters aren't Chinese, aru," he concluded, letting the tag fall back into place with a short clink. "They're simplified, but there's kana mixed in. It's Japanese. Talk to Kiku."

With a word of thanks Berwald and Tino left the man to enjoy his morning off, starting back down the street in the direction they knew Kiku Honda, resident Japanese exchange student, roomed with Heracles Karpusi, someone Berwald knew distantly through the gang.

"I'm certainly glad we moved here," Tino mused, resettling the dog under one arm. "At least we're within walking distance of practically everyone we know…"

"Makes y'wond'r f'Feli plann'd it that way," Berwald added, pausing as they came upon Kiku's house, which was remarkable in its extreme tidiness. "Time t'f'nd out his… her…?"

He trailed off, realizing that they hadn't even checked the dog's gender before they started their search for… its owners. Tino resolved that issue with a quick flip of the pup, after which he declared 'she' with certainty.

"Her name, th'n."

They rang the bell, but were greeted not by the short Japanese man they expected, but Heracles, who was up surprisingly early considering that he was… well, _him._

"Morning," he greeted, yawning over the top of a cat that was, for reasons unknown, tucked into the front of his shirt. "Can I… help you with something?"

"Um, yes, is Kiku home?" Tino asked, bringing the pup to his chest in mimicry of the Greek's cat. The sleepy man shook his head, leaning on the doorframe as if he physically needed it to stand — which he probably did at that point in the morning.

"No, Kiku was staying with… his cousin," Heracles explained. "He hasn't been home yet. Is there… anything _I_ could do?"

"Well, that depends," Tino replied. "How much Japanese can you read?"

The Greek shrugged. "Some."

Having no other options handy, Tino offered him the pup, pointing out the characters on the tag. Heracles looked them over, occasionally mumbling something to himself like, "_ka_… no, _hana_…" and "_zan_… _zankoku_…? Really…?". Eventually he handed the small dog back and pronounced, with an entirely straight face, that her name was:

"Bloody Hanatamago."

"_What?"_ was the best Berwald could come up with, looking completely bewildered behind the sharp frames of his glasses. Tino was silent for all of seven seconds, then he burst out into an overjoyed cry of:

"That's so _cute!_ It's perfect for her!"

"Really?" the other two men asked, incredulous faces mirrors of one another. Tino just nodded, squeezing the pup's paws happily.

"Bloody Hanatamago… was there not an address or phone number?"

"No," the Greek answered, "but I've… seen this dog before, a week back. She was playing in the yard… three houses down."

Tino's face instantly fell. Berwald could tell the Finn had bonded with the dog back in their yard; he'd obviously been hoping that she was abandoned, and wasn't ecstatic to hear that 'Bloody Hanatamago' had a home to return to.

Or so they'd thought. But, upon actually bidding Heracles goodbye and heading three houses down, Berwald stopped dead in his tracks, a slight smile he knew would be reflected on his roommate's face — with ten times the luminosity — playing with his lips. In the windows on both sides of the house's front door — apparently to compliment the one erected in the front yard — were giant 'FOR SALE BY OWNER' signs, dulled and slightly dusty from sitting for a while. Without skipping a beat, Tino plugged the offered phone number into his cell, pleased when a patronizing female voice informed him that the number he'd dialled was no longer in service, but if he wanted to hang up and try again, he could certainly do so.

He hung up, but didn't try again.

"N'thin'?" Berwald asked.

"Nothing," Tino answered, tone light and hopeful. "Berwald, could—?"

"Wh'tev'r y're gonna say, th'answ'r's yes."

"But..."

"Yes."

Berwald had been right — the smile on Tino's face was _brilliant_. It was as if all the tension and awkwardness of the proceeding night had evaporated, and suddenly — for a single, crystal moment — the Swede could visualize what it would be like to date Tino. That carefree sweetness with just the right amount of stubbornness, nothing stressed, just — able to be him, to dote or be pushed over as he pleased. It was golden, thinking that Tino might accept — if not understand — who he was, with less and less fear everyday…

The moment stretched for hours, through a meal of the Swede's favorite food and into a cozy evening by the fireplace, where Berwald read a book quietly to round out what had ultimately been a much better day than yesterday. Now dry and fattened on table scraps Tino really shouldn't have snuck her, their new pup wandered in and placed her paws on the tall man's knees, wanting up. He lifted her into his lap, pleased when she settled down without a fuss, contrary to how he'd assumed she'd act as a small, hyperactive dog. He absentmindedly set to petting her, unaware of Tino's presence in the doorway as he zoned out, thoughts meandering from whether or not it would snow again tonight (probably) to whether or not the electricity would be on by the time he had to get ready for his shift at the 24 Hour Espresso tomorrow (probably not).

Tino smiled at the sight and slid down the jamb to sit on the carpeted floor, pulling his little black notebook out of his back pocket and laying it open as he did. He flipped through the pages, not paying any mind to how personal the entries had become recently, and set to writing:

_Monday_

_Berwald endangers my ethics, but everyday proves every assumption I once made about him wrong. He is nothing if not kind, considerate, and a perfect gentleman — hardly delinquent material. I don't just have to rethink my diagnosis — I have to scrap it. I do so without regret._

He closed his black book, not really feeling up to digging deep into his psychologist's approach to Berwald as the man was brought back to earth by a careful nip at his hand. The Swede glanced down at the pup in his lap, only to find her eyes were focused just over his shoulder. Tino had moved to lean over the back of his chair, an extended hand reaching down to scratch just behind the dog's ears.

"Welcome home, Bl…" he started, trailing off as he watched the subtle changes in Berwald's face, "_…just_ Hanatamago."

The Swede was content, and expressed it through a gentle pat to the top of Hanatamago's head, his large hand brushing Tino's much smaller one for a warm moment as they accepted the newest member of their household.

"Mhm. W'lcome h'me."

* * *

**A/N:** Hey, look, fluff! And Hanatamago! Yay!

Anyway, I was trying for a little relationship progression _—_ or at least to show Sweden caving to his feelings and Finland practically building himself a _moat_ _—_ this chapter, but I may have epic failed. Pacing is a delicate thing; you guys are gonna have to tell me if I'm going too fast or going too slow.

Oh! Lastly, some people were freaking out because I sign all my chapters with a "Thanks for reading all the way to the end!", thinking that I'd abruptly end the story at chapter six, or something. No, I just like to thank everyone for reading to the end of the chapter _—_ I know I've started to read some stories, gotten about halfway through, and gone 'uck, not for me', and hit the back button. I'm not a perfect person. I just like to say thanks to you guys for giving each chapter your attention till its end. So, yeah, that's what that's about. :B

Now that I've cleared that up, thanks for reading all the way to the end! Reviews are love!

- C


	12. Some Party

**A/N:** Hey guys! It's 11:35 PM my time, and I'm absolutely lovin' it! Not! I just wanted to get this chapter out to you. I don't have much to say up here (the block of my rambling will be at the bottom) other then I fixed my double hyphen problem! "—" to the rescue!

**(((**Oh, wait, never mind, I _do_ have stuff to say! As some of you may recall, there's been a boring and drab author's note relating the details of my untimely robbery where chapter ten _should_ be. Don't want to spoil the surprise, but — well, it's not there any more. I left y'all two little 'thank you's for all your patience and support, and I hope you enjoy them.**)))**

Enjoy them, that is, _after _you read _this_ chapter. Please? ;D

I apologize in advance for any typos or epic fails. I might have mentioned it, but I should be sleeping. -_-;;;

**WARNING(S):** It's shirtless day! Why? Who knows!

* * *

If Tino had gotten to write in his notebook this day, he would've done so in the morning, and the entry might've sounded something like this:

_Monday_

_Today is my birthday. It's been a few days since my last entry, and things are still awkward around the house with Berwald. I'm glad to have him back at work, even if it is where I intend to have my party. Hopefully things will go smoothly. _

Unfortunately, he _didn't_ get to write. Nothing went smoothly. And on it goes.

* * *

"Holy shit, dude. I thought you died — I thought you ate something of Art's and, just, fell over dead."

Alfred leaned over the counter at the 24 Hour Espresso, bewildering a woman trying to pay for her macchiato by pointing at the newly arrived Berwald and yelling at the top of his lungs. The Swede, who'd taken Arthur up on his offer to switch shifts after he'd become suddenly, violently ill, didn't bat an eyelash as he let himself behind the counter and took his shirt off. He got a few appreciative whistles as he tied the uniform apron on over his slacks, but ultimately just shrugged as he took his place next to the equally shirtless Alfred.

Other than that, no one commented. Strange times.

"No, m'fine," Berwald assured, digging under the counter for more teabags. "M'ybe Arth'r did, tho'. Nasty s'ckn'ss, mhm?"

The American just laughed. "Yeah, a likely story. More like he stayed home to perfect his makeup technique, tryin' to cover up his tattoos."

Berwald nodded, neither agreeing nor denying, and started on a steamed milk. Alfred, as used to supplying chatter as Tino now was, just kept talking. "I don't know about you, but I'm digging this new 'no shirt, all service' thing. Too bad no chicks work here! But then again, that wouldn't do much for you, huh? Whatevs! I'm just glad you decided to swap shifts with Art, man. I would've been busier than a one legged man in an ass kickin' contest on my own. You know how Monday is — everybody and their grandma's gotta come in and get a fix. Oh! But, man, did you hear? We're givin' the bikini baristas two blocks over a run for their money!"

He went on, but Berwald tuned him out, waiting for what he knew was inevitable. It was the main reason he'd agreed to swap shifts with Arthur when he_ so_ wasn't a morning person — right about now, Tino would walk in and…

"Oh my God…"

_Bingo._

The Finn was perfectly frozen for about a millisecond, the look on his face suspended somewhere between surprised and flustered. Then he was jostled from behind by a customer coming in the door, and snapped out of it. He stepped out of the threshold in a real hurry, cheeks burning, obviously wondering why in the _hell_ his roommate was running the register sans the button-down he'd walked out the door in that morning.

"Oh! Tino! Happy Birthday!" Alfred yelled, waving with excess enthusiasm. "Art sends his 'regards', whatever those are, and this weird-looking package! My present's the awesome one—"

"—in red, white, and blue?" Tino finished for him, acting casual as he made his way into the Espresso proper, already burdened down a fair number of gifts. "I wouldn't have guessed."

He winked at the American, who laughed good naturedly and went on making coffee for people. Tino let the pile of gifts in his arms slide to join those of Arthur and Alfred on a small table near the counter, sighing when his arms were free. "At least you had the decency not to do a drive-by, Al. Five people this morning yelled 'Happy Birthday, Tino!', threw something at me, and ran. Thus is the life of your average chronically late college student, I suppose."

All through this Tino hadn't stopped smiling, but it was obvious he was making a concerted effort not to look at Berwald. _Shirtless day, shirtless day — why did today, _of all days_, have to be shirtless day? _

Little did Tino know, but it wasn't just going to be 'shirtless _day_' — it was going to be 'indefinitely shirtless until furniture sales improve' for Berwald. Winter never was a good season for his carpentry. He tended to be outsold by IKEA. The irony wasn't lost on him.

"Happy Birthday, Tin… oh. _Hell_. My day is made."

Elizabeta had walked in and forcibly relocated Tino's attention from his gifts to the resident bare-chested Swede. She'd been prepared to fling her gift at the unassuming Finn — who'd been braced for it — but nearly dropped it when she caught sight of Berwald. He cleared his throat in embarrassment and became suddenly very interested in the register.

"That's been about the general reaction," Alfred supplied helpfully, flexing a bare arm to steal a little of her appreciative gaze. "Business is up two hundred and ten percent!"

"And I can certainly see why," Eliza agreed, boosting herself up on the counter so she could link arms with Berwald. "See, Tino? Here's somebody who fears not the scorning college masses. At least you were fully dressed in your viral photo! By the time I'm done taking pictures there won't be a soul in this town who hasn't seen these abs."

An encore of the earlier _'bingo'_ was in order. It was obvious that Tino hadn't quite recovered from his terrifying run-in with cross-dressing notoriety, and he needed to be shown that, on the scale of embarrassing stuff you could do in college, it really didn't rank. And that was just what Berwald had done. From the look on Tino's face, he got the point — and from the look on Eliza's, it would be good for a certain top to be found again sometime soon.

"Shirtless Swedish dudes aside," Alfred said, "it's time to get this party started. When are Toris and Ed gonna get here?"

"They said around ten, so anytime now," Tino answered, glancing up at the Espresso's door as the bell jangled. "And speak of the devil, here they are!"

Two men stepped inside, one of them holding the door for a lady on her way out, before they turned to give Tino bright smiles and quiet greetings of, "Happy Birthday."

"I'm so glad you two could make it," he replied, dragging over a pair of chairs so that the two newest arrivals could grab seats. Alfred scanned the rest of the shop, and, seeing as the morning rush had cleared out, declared it closed. He ran up and taped a sign into the glass of the door, letting those concerned about their caffeine fix know that the shop would reopen later. When, _specifically_, he didn't bother to indicate. He figured the awesome doodle of himself giving a thumbs-up would appease any perspective sign viewers. On his return to the group, he found Tino making introductions for Berwald, who was unsuccessfully trying to get his top without Eliza noticing.

"Anyway, Berwald, this is my good friend Eduard and _his_ good friend Toris; Toris and Eduard, this is my roommate Berwald."

"A pleasure to meet you," Eduard said, shaking the much taller man's hand. He got a nod signifying that the pleasure was mutual, before Berwald looked down to find Toris, who'd appeared sane enough, determining the length of his arm with measuring tape he'd gotten from... Well, _nowhere_.

"Um?" the Swede asked, exercising all of his eloquence in one, _blinding_ burst. Toris's head snapped up, and he had the decency to look embarrassed for a brief second before he asked:

"What's your inseam?"

Berwald's brain was working on figuring out what the _hell_ was going on, but in the meantime he just spat out the answer that was required. "36 inches."

Toris practically gasped, his smile blinding as he recorded the number in pen on the back of his hand. Eduard coughed in embarrassment, tugging gently on the man's collar to try to get him to stop his frantic measuring. Everyone else just kind of stared — well, except Elizabeta, who never passed up a chance to take photos of men doing awkward things.

"I'm _terribly_ sorry," the more composed of the two new arrivals said. "He's a tailor, and he just hasn't had many opportunities — since his business opened two months ago — to measure someone so…"

"…_tall_," Toris finished for him, clenching the end of his tape between his teeth before he moved down to snap it around Berwald's waist. "And _fit_. Wow, this is… is… extremely awkward."

Seeming to realize himself for the first time, the Lithuanian snapped to his feet and jammed his measuring tape into his pocket, red as the late evening sunset over Vilnius. Tino shared a look with Eduard, getting quite a bit of apology from the Estonian's end, and forced a laugh to lighten the mood.

"Well, that was certainly… enlightening!"

"If what you wanted to be 'enlightened' about was Berwald's pants size, then yeah, wow, Buddha-tastic," Alfred observed, leaning on the bar like he was _seriously_ bored. "How come you've never tangled me up in measurin' tape, Tor?"

"Matthew's about your size, and I met him first," the tailor explained, still nervously fidgeting. Alfred gave him a blank look.

"Who?"

"Your brother?"

"Oh! _Right!_ Man, I need more coffee!"

While the American dove back behind the machines in pursuit of caffeine, Toris began an earnest litany of apologies, directed both at Berwald and Tino, for starting the celebration off so strangely. After he'd been assured by both of them that he'd caused no trouble, he took Berwald's hand and shoved a business card in it.

"Just in case you're downtown again sometime…" Toris explained, clearing his throat and pointing discreetly to the address line. "We're nearby. Feel free to stop in."

"I j'st m'ght," Berwald said, before returning his attention to _might've_ become a party given half the chance, noting the conspicuous absence of someone he didn't like to know was conspicuously absent. "Wh're's 'Liza?"

"Yes, that would be good to know," Eduard agreed, suddenly looking as nervous as Toris had earlier. "When she disappears you just never know what she's up to…"

"Come now, you're talking about me like I'm some kind of _deviant,"_ her voice chimed in, and without further ado, Elizabeta reappeared with several cakes on a tray — having apparently ducked into the back to get them — and Berwald realized he'd missed a very good opportunity to become not shirtless. "There was nothing devious about my work setting you up with that _lovely_ Icelander—"

"Ahahaha!" Eduard cut in, clapping his hands together to drown out whatever she was going to finish with. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Tino, but aren't those Runebergintorttuja?"

Tino seemed to be in shock as he eyed the eight dark cakes neatly set out on the tray. "They _are!_ Elizabeta, where on Earth did you get these? If you say Helsinki, I'll be forced to hit you."

"If I disclose my source I just _know_ you'll go broke there," the Hungarian countered, setting the tray of individual, raspberry-topped cakes down on a clear area of counter, "not to mention grow amazingly round. No, if you'd like more of these babies, you'll have to hunt up the shop on your own."

Tino didn't get to pout for very long. With a cry of, "Let's get this party started!" Alfred resurfaced, bearing a hot cuppa joe and brightly colored birthday candles. Before Tino, Elizabeta, or Eduard could get out any kind of warning, he'd lit one and brought it to the top of a cake.

It is a little known fact that Runebergintorttuja, or 'Runeberg Cakes', are generally brushed with syrup that was, in this case, laced with rum.

It is a more commonly known fact that rum is flammable.

It would've been nice for Alfred to have known that beforehand. It would've been _especially _nice to have known that before the man's hand faltered, bringing the candle's flame within ignition range of the seemingly innocuous syrup.

There was a kind of stunned silence as the cake began to flame. Then, without a word, Berwald took the glass pastry cover off of the 24 Hour Espresso's meager selection of Danishes. He slammed it down over the cake before any of its neighbors could catch, cutting off oxygen to the fire. It went out, and Alfred began to laugh.

"Guess you don't get to make a wish, Tino!"

"That's perfectly fine with me," the Finn replied, "as long as you don't set any more of my cake on fire."

There was general agreement on that — and a collective thankful look sent Berwald's way — before the party really did get started. After everyone had talked plenty and indulged in some of the amazing(ly flammable) Finnish cake, Tino turned to paper demolishing and present receiving. He got a good haul, but there were two presents in particular that stood out among the rest.

The first was Arthur's.

"Dear God, should I even_ try_ to open this one?" Tino asked, turning the slightly lumpy package over in his hands to see if he could suss out what it was before having to free it from its papery prison. He got a mixed response of "Does Berwald still have the pastry cover?", "Of course!", and "Depends; is this shop insured?", but he ultimately ended up pulling off the ribbon and at least looking at the card.

"Wow, Art's penmanship is still amazing…" he observed, before beginning to read, _"'Dear Tino, on the occasion of your twenty-second birthday, I would like to thank you for your unfailing good humor, open-mindedness, and help in my research of Finnish pagan rites and practices. Enjoy your day, and your gift. Sincerely, Arthur Kirkland'_…"

"Aw, that's sweet," Eliza commented, poking the still-wrapped package experimentally. "You've _got_ to open it."

"I would, but…" Tino trailed off, gesturing to the bottom of the card. "There's a post script."

"And?"

"'_P.S. I'm afraid I cannot be held responsible for any damages incurred by this gift.'"_

"Oh."

Everyone stared down at the package. It moved.

"Ooookay_,_ I'm just going to open this at home, where I can borrow some of Berwald's safety equipment," Tino decided, getting a nod of agreement from his roommate, who was trying to remember where his nail gun was, should it come down to a battle with supernatural forces. He swept the package into his satchel, and that was that.

The second memorable gift was from Berwald himself.

When he produced the small black jewelry box it was in, both Tino and Elizabeta's hearts stopped.

It looked like an engagement ring case.

While Eliza thought something along the lines of, _Christ, I told you to make a move, not corner him!_ Tino's mind went disturbingly blank. Everyone who wasn't clued into their thoughts, Berwald included, just looked perplexed.

"Aren't you going to take it, Tino?" Toris asked, sipping an iced mocha Alfred had provided on the house. Eduard laughed lightly. "This one's not bewitched, right?"

"Um, sure," Tino sputtered, taking the case from Berwald's extended hand like it was something both irritable and venomous. He took a deep breath, steeled himself _not_ to inflict psychological damage on his roommate with his rejection, and opened the box.

_Oh._

"Score, necklace! Dude, is that a coin?" Alfred asked, leaning over Tino's small shoulder. "What's up with the hippos?"

Tino's blind terror had melted straight into amusement and delight — with absolutely _no_ tiny twinge of hopeless disappointment in between, he would have you know. "They're not hippos, they're Moomins! This is a Finnish coin minted to commemorate Tove Jansson's popular comics. Which I love." He turned to Berwald, lifting the pendant out of the box to get a good look at the whole thing. "How did you _know?"_

The Swede coughed conspiratorially. "M'source'll pref'r t'be unnam'd."

That got a laugh out of everyone, and what tension had been generated by the suspect jewelry case passed. Tino hung the pendant around his neck, admiring the delicate mounting Berwald had fashioned, and was pleased to find that it didn't make him look too girly, as was always a hazard when he received jewelry. Just as he was about to thank the other man, he noticed something strange out of the corner of his eye.

Peter was standing in the Espresso's window making faces at him and Berwald. Tino had to fight not to crack up.

"Um, _Su-san_, I think there's somebody…"

He pointed to the window, but before Berwald could catch the littlest Kirkland making faces, he scooted off, making like he'd been calmly strolling down the street the whole time. The Swede sighed and grumbled a bit, obviously used to the kid's antics and embarrassed by them. Tino wondered briefly why the man seemed to feel so responsible for Peter, but let the thought go as his American friend leaned forward on braced arms, letting out an uncharacteristic sigh.

"Man, he's an awesome kid, but Art _sucks_ at parenting," Alfred said, watching Peter kicking a can along. "I mean, what the heck's he doing wandering around on his own, trailed by the creep parade?"

"'Creep parade'?" Eduard repeated, confused — and that was when they saw them. Three men were following the boy from a safe distance, not _exactly_ looking like they were out to sell Girl Scout cookies and pick flowers, if you get the drift. Peter, oblivious to his surroundings, kicked his can down an alleyway and took off after it, apparently pissed about something. The guys followed, picking up their pace a little.

"That's not good…" Toris said, standing and turning to Alfred. "Somebody should go after… where's Tino?"

The Espresso's door bell jangled, announcing a certain Finn's departure into imminent danger. There was a beat of silence, and then suddenly the shop burst into activity, the mood pulling a one-eighty from light and celebratory to panicked and tense. Peter was an obnoxious kid, but there was no way any of the assembled could let something happen to him.

"Berwald, go after them; Alfred, find the phone and call _somebody_," Eliza directed, tugging on her coat. "I'm going to try to find a policeman. Or Vash."

Berwald didn't have to be told twice, but it took a little pushing to knock Al out of his shock. _"Do something!"_

Toris and Eduard took off in Berwald's wake; Alfred almost knocked the phone off the wall in his hurry to get a number, _any number_, dialed. Eliza was out the door and gone in a flurry of brown hair and skirt.

And somewhere down an alley, Tino had found Peter and his dubious followers, and come to a painful conclusion.

* * *

This had not been his smartest idea ever, was Tino's conclusion.

He'd managed to get between the boy and the three — now comically surprised — men, but he didn't think that was going to do Peter any good.

Upon closer inspection, he discovered he was _kinda_ short.

They weren't. And they actually looked like they wanted to hurt somebody.

The men were armed with not only their size, but also an unfair amount of painful armaments — a pipe, a length of chain, a box cutter… not exactly the most refined of weapons, but they definitely made Tino's odds a lot slimmer.

Then again, he_ was_ Finnish, and that had to count for _something._

"Wow, did we get a two-fer?" one of the men asked his companions, laughing a bit. "Seriously? Kid, you've got some lame back-up."

"I don't need any back-up!" Peter shouted, giving them the finger. "I could take you on my own!"

_Definitely Arthur's brother,_ Tino reflected. "Peter, now would be a great time for you to stop talking."

"Shut up! You're _not_ my mother!"

Tino took a deep, _deep_ breath. The kid's attitude was the least of his problems — right now _he_ didn't have any back-up, and the guys were starting to circle like vultures.

"So, are we going to do this the easy way or the hard way?" a man, who seemed to be the ringleader, asked. He had the box cutter, and Tino kept eyes on him, despite the fact that the other two were feinting at him, moving backwards and forwards with little laughs and jabs. They were screwing around. Creep #1 wasn't.

"We're not _doing_ anything," Tino said, voice not exactly steady. Berwald could show up any time now. Really. Even if all he did was glare at them, it would be a better plan than the one he was currently working on.

Which went something like this:

Fuelled by adrenaline and the leftover sugar rush from cake that was fighting to come up, Tino was ready when Creep #2, wielding the pipe, swung at him. Here, his height was an advantage.

He put an arm up to shield his eyes from a blow and punched the guy's abdomen, not going for the easy target between his legs because that would've been expected and guarded for. By focusing his bodyweight into the hit, Tino was able to force the man back a few steps, giving himself time to hit the ground when Creep #3 started swinging his length of chain. Peter had wisely plastered himself against one of the alley walls, well out of harm's way, but he wouldn't be any better off than five minutes ago if Tino couldn't at least give him an opening to run.

Tino hadn't taken self-defense classes. He'd never lived on the streets. He hadn't even watched that many fighting movies. That being said, all his 'combat experience' came from schoolyard brawls, and he had to employ a few of those tactics now.

He dove forward and got his arms around Creep #3's legs, keeping the man from regaining his balance by holding on just that much tighter when he struggled. The Finn got a few kicks to the sides and back, but he managed to bring the man down hard on his spine. Tino rolled away from more kicks amid strings of curses, pushing himself halfway upright against a dumpster he'd rolled into. Just as he was about to try to charge Creep #1, something interesting happened.

Berwald punched the man in the back of the head.

This was very interesting to Tino, as it meant that he could probably just sit down now and check on what felt like bruised ribs. Ow.

Shortly behind Berwald came Eduard and Toris, both of which promptly rat-packed Creep #3, who began yelling something about 'having been roped into it' and 'not wanting to go back to jail'. Berwald pressed his heel into the man's throat. He shut up.

Toris stood and wiped his brow with a shaking hand. "Interesting birthday party you're having, Tino."

"I know," the Finn agreed, wincing as he shifted and jostled his ribs, "it's just the _bestest _one yet."

Berwald spared Tino a half smile for the sarcasm and knelt to get a look at his side after making sure that Peter was okay. He was, just annoyed that he hadn't gotten to fight too. After hearing this, Berwald had closed his eyes very tightly, taken off his glasses, and counted to ten.

It hadn't helped.

Focused on discerning whether Tino's ribs were just bruised, as the psych major insisted, or cracked, Berwald was taken entirely by surprise when an obnoxious voice boomed towards him.

"Huzzah! Your saviors are here!"

Five heads turned to find Gilbert and the vast majority of the gang crowding into the alleyway, trailed by Alfred and Elizabeta, who wore similar annoyed expressions for entirely different reasons — Alfred because he hadn't gotten to be the 'hero', and Eliza because the American had called Gilbert, of _all_ people.

"Y're just in t'me t'do n'thin'," Berwald observed, gratefully noting Ludwig's approach with a first aid kit. About half of the gang became visibly disappointed at his words while the others all seemed to roll their eyes as a whole.

"Aw, who handled the bad guys?" Gilbo asked, looking honestly dejected that things had been taken care of so quickly. A lot of fingers were pointed, but most of them ended up on Tino, who got busy brushing himself off and generally not meeting anyone's eyes. This would just do _wonders_ for his reputation. Lovino, who'd been standing just behind the self-proclaimed Prussian, gave him a skeptical — but also strangely appraising — look.

"Is that so?"

"Yes, though I'm kind of regretting it…" Tino said, gingerly poking a pipe-shaped bruise on his arm. "It would have been nice to have my resident head-puncher with me from the beginning."

The fact that Tino said 'my' made Berwald light up a little bit, but no one really noticed outside of Lovino. The two shared a look, where their terse conversation the other day about whether or not anything was going on between the Swede and his roommate was remembered. Berwald didn't know how to fill Lovino in on his deal with Elizabeta, but the Italian seemed to get the shape of it. He spared Tino, who was trying to figure out where Peter had wandered off to, a moment's consideration, then gave Berwald a small nod…

…which either meant he approved, or Berwald owed him a lot of tomatoes — you never could tell. The Swede decided to hedge his bets and hit the supermarket before the week was out.

All this took place in the space of a few seconds. Then the Italian pretended to _really_ focus on Berwald for the first time.

"Why, in the name of Holy Mary, is the Swedish bastard not wearing a shirt?"

"It's Tino's birthday," Elizabeta supplied helpfully.

"Ah," Lovino said, as if that had really explained it. The Finn went through three shades of scarlet.

"Hey, I'm not wearing a shirt either!" Alfred chimed in, only to be ignored by everyone but Feliciano, who'd arrived late and was looking for something to do. Sadiq crouched next to Creep #2, who'd been playing dead since Tino got in the first good hit. He tightly covered the man's mouth and nose with his hand, leaving his only options suffocation or quitting his act. He popped up and gasped like a fish.

"And Sleeping Beauty wakes," the Turk drawled, the white of his shark smile stark against the tan of his skin. "Since the cops were too busy to show for the main event, what do you say we help 'em out by 'escorting' this guy and his buddies downtown?"

"We are downtown," Vash pointed out, completely deadpan. Sadiq frowned.

"Okay, we'll 'escort' 'em into the back of your SUV, drive to an undisclosed location and beat 'em senseless, then come back here to walk 'em the three blocks to the police station. That work for you, Zwingli?"

"As long as I still get to shoot someone, _ja_."

"Hey, no shooting people," Tino protested, numbly surprised at how _not _vindicated he was by 'the gang' actually acting like a _gang._ Somehow, getting into a brawl and then having them come as backup, even if it was late, endeared them to him. Besides which, he didn't have time to get preachy. It was nearly two o' clock, and he wanted to get home and see what Arthur had cooked up for him this year.

Okay, he really didn't, but anything was preferable to being propped up against a dumpster with bruised ribs.

"Best birthday ever," he muttered again, feeling suddenly very tired. He didn't get to wallow in it for long, though.

"If there's a birthday going on, why is it being celebrated in this alley, and not in high style?" Francis asked, extending a hand to help the psych major to his feet. "This simply will not do. Vash, bring the car around, _s'il te plait_."

"What am I, a valet? And for the last time, it's all-terrain—"

"_Oui, oui_, whatever — just go do it."

Vash grumbled off in pursuit of his baby tank as the rest of the gang dispersed, preparing for what they guaranteed would be a wild evening. They'd even roped Alfred and an all-too-willing Elizabeta into the plan, and would've gotten Toris too, if he hadn't had the very legitimate excuse of having to get up and go to work in the morning. Eduard checked his PDA and found he suddenly had very pressing code to write, but he left Tino with well wishes before making his own exit. Tino looked over at Berwald, who seemed just about as thrilled at the prospect of a giant party as he did.

"Do you think we have a choice?" he asked, giving his clothes a quick brush off before stretching his tired bones. Berwald shook his head. After the numbered creeps were 'escorted' several places they would _never_ relate to the authorities, Tino resigned himself to being unceremoniously packed into Vash's SUV, seated halfway in Berwald's lap with no idea of where he was going.

By the time the gang was done with them, the surprise tailoring, flaming cake and back alley brawl seemed like the tamest parts of their day.

* * *

**OMAKE**

* * *

"Hey, I was homeless for a whole _thirteen minutes_ — I could've beat up those guys without the help of some _runt!"_

Peter sat on Berwald's very nice sofa, arms crossed with his shoes on the upholstery, looking like someone had seriously pissed in his cereal. Said couch's creator was crouched on the carpet in front of the boy, trying, against all odds, to reason with him — something Tino had given up on when Peter moved on from addressing him as "short" and "pint-sized" to "vertically challenged" and "midget-y".

"Pot calling the kettle black," the Finn grumbled from the kitchen, where he was reheating some leftovers for dinner. The party hadn't exactly given either he or Berwald time to cook. The Swede himself appeared only a moment later, obviously counting to ten several times over as he pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off a headache.

"Best I c'n tell," he began, "Arth'r r'lly _is_ sick. Pet'r took th'opp'rtun'ty t'run off, an' now he's bitt'r 'cause he want'd t live in a box."

"Strangely, I'm unsympathetic," Tino griped, wincing as he took his plate out of the microwave and burned himself, and then wincing again as the initial wince jostled his ribs. It would've been a never-ending cycle of wincing if Berwald hadn't gently supported his side with a large hand, allowing his taped-up ribs to stop throbbing for a moment.

"Ludwig was good w'th th'tape, but y'should st'll see a doct'r," Berwald insisted, nervously withdrawing his hand as soon he was sure Tino was okay.

"Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if _somebody_ hadn't been _poking _me all the way home," the psych major groaned, directing his voice towards the boy who still sat in the living room sulking. Berwald hung his head, embarrassed on Peter's behalf.

"There's a good k'd in th're… somewher'."

Tino sighed but cracked a small smile for the man's benefit as he dished him a portion to be nuked. "If you say so. How long is the little terror going to be staying?"

Berwald looked as if he'd been physically kicked. "Um. Mnm. 'Bout th't…"

"Wait. Don't tell me. I don't want to know."

At that point Peter skidded into the kitchen, shoes shucked in favor of socks, all the better to slide across hardwood floors in.

"I saw dog stuff," he said, looking excited. "Do you have a dog?"

"Yes," Tino replied, resisting the urge to mutter, 'no, we just keep it around for kicks'. "She's at the vet's overnight for vaccinations and a check-up, though. Do you want some dinner?"

Peter didn't seem to hear the last part. He just frowned and tromped back to the sofa, where he went about sulking and channel surfing until he found some cartoons that could retain his interest.

"I'm bored!" he called back, just in case the two adults in the house hadn't noticed. Tino handed his roommate a plate, taking a deep breath.

"'There's a good kid in there somewhere', huh?"

"S'a cry f'r help. I th'nk. Th't's what th'broch'res say, 'nyway."

"Uh-huh. Okay."

While Tino sat down to the re-run of last night's dinner, Berwald slunk off (as best he could 'slink', being six feet tall and all), returning after a moment with an over-large box Tino vaguely recalled having once contained a pedestal table. He propped it on the island to Tino's left, and began the hunt for a permanent marker. The Finn gave him a confused look through a mouthful of reheated spinach.

"What are you up to?"

"Said he want'd t'live in a box, he c'n live in a box," Berwald grumbled, finding a Sharpie and returning to the cardboard creation. "But th't doesn't mean he goes unpun'sh'd."

Tino watched, an eyebrow cocked skeptically, as the man scrawled the word "England" on the side of the box in his no-nonsense script.

"_Su-san_, is that a metaphor or a psychological trigger?"

"Neith'r. I th'nk. Appar'ntly 'Ngland's all Arth'r ev'r talks 'bout. This's a tort're d'vice."

The cocked eyebrow was quickly joined by its mate in upraised surprise as Berwald stepped back into the living room, this time armed with cardboard and a very serious expression indeed. Tino stood up from the table and followed, wondering what exactly the man was going to do.

"Stupid brother, stupid blond midget, _stupid Berwald_," Peter muttered, angrily pressing buttons on the TV remote to work off some spare energy. "Doesn't even pay attention to me. _No,_ now there's a _new_ short guy he's gotta fawn over. Pfft."

Berwald got within arm's reach of the boy, allowing himself to smirk only slightly at the kid's unhappy rambling. He held the box up, tilted to slip right over Peter's head, as Tino stood in the doorway and watched. The only warning Peter got was the reflection of his impending doom as the program he'd settled on faded to black for commercial. Then—

"Ack! No! Stop it!"

Berwald dropped the box over his head and shook it, startling the kid into a thrashing fit. Berwald put all his weight on his 'device' to keep it from popping up and letting the boy escape as his indignant cries dissolved into giggles and half-hearted threats of a Viking burial while the Swede was still alive.

"Whaddya th'nk?" he asked, turning to Tino with his elbows firmly braced on the bucking box. Tino just let his face sink into his hands, trying hard not to laugh.

"Please don't ask me what I think."

"Hey! Is that the midget? This was all _his_ plan, wasn't—"

Another round of shakes cut him off, and Tino crouched next to Peter's pseudo-English prison. "Afraid not. This was all of Berwald's evil devising — but it does give me a perfect opportunity."

"To do what?" Peter asked, tone wary. Tino waved for Berwald to quit manufacturing mini-earthquakes, then lifted the edge of the box to peek in at the boy, who lay in a jumbled heap.

"To try this again," he replied, extending a hand into the box for Peter to shake in the spirit of peace. "I'm Tino. It's nice to meet you."

Peter stared the offered hand, oversized brows knitting together in cautious confusion. "…you're not here to steal Berwald?"

"That's not the main plan, no."

"And you're still _not_ my mother."

"God, I hope not."

"I'm Peter," the kid grunted, rejecting the hand but accidentally letting a laugh sneak out when Berwald gave his box an approving shake. Tino gave the boy a smile, willing to _maybe_ let Berwald's good opinion of him be weighed evenly against his earlier behavior. There was a contented pause as quiet reigned throughout the house. Then—

"I'm hungry."

"Might've mentioned this, but I'm _not_ your mother. Get it yourself."

"Awww."

* * *

**A/N:** Hey, look, Dambolis! And family unit! ...but it's not _perfect_. Sorry, but in my headcanon, Peter's still a Kirkland — and England, aka Arthur Kirkland _was_ a pirate at one point according to word of God. Sealand's a little troublemaker, needing some attention and tough love, but ultimately I like his character and writing them as a family. I couldn't resist.

Also, fist fight! How many SuFin, romance/humor fics have you seen a _fist fight_ in? That _didn't_ involve Denmark? I just felt Tino needed a little more badass factor than some people give him credit for. And it flowed better than the scene where I wrote him beating creeps with his satchel (read, man-purse). ;D

Inspiration for Tino's flaming cake (I could make so many 'flaming' jokes right now, but I'm too tired, so you are spared) comes from here: http: / dessertsforbreakfast. blogspot. com/ 2010/ 02/finnish-february -runeberg-cake-aka .html

When I tripped across this blog, I knew I had to include them somehow. They make me hungry. P:

And, wait, how did I manage to sneak in Estonia/Iceland, the most bizarre pairing ever? Sometimes, I confuse myself.

Last, last,_ LAST_ — I promise! — I don't know about other countries (or even other areas in the States), but here around Seattle, Bikini Barista shops are _everywhere_ (case in point, http: / www. cbsnews. com/ 2300-504083 _ 162-5990739 .html? tag=page; previous). I just couldn't pass up the opportunity to throw them into this AU, give 'em a twist, and get Sweden's shirt off. XD

Thanks for reading all the way to the end! Leave me a review, or wander off and read the newly renovated chapter ten!

- C


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